21317	----	A Life's Eclipse, by George Manville Fenn. ________________________________________________________________________ This is a short book by G.M. Fenn's usual standards, but you will enjoy reading it. The hero is John Grange, a young gardener on Mrs Mostyn's estate, who finds himself to be in love with Mary Ellis, the daughter of the bailiff, James Ellis. But as he is no more than an under-gardener Ellis is angry with him for even thinking of Mary. There is an accident when John has ascended a large cedar tree that had lost a bough in a gale, and a broken branch needed to be tidied up. John falls from where he was sawing, onto the ground, landing on his head. He recovers from the concussion, but is now blind. His rival not only for Mary's hand but also for promotion to Head Gardener when Dunton, the present Head Gardener, now very old, dies, is Daniel Barnett, who of course gets the job. But he is a nasty man, not very good at his work, while the blind John can do his work almost as well as before, working by touch. Barnett plays a number of most unkind tricks on his rival John. Eventually John disappears without trace and rumour is rife that Daniel Barnett had made away with him, so that he might have a clear run to Mary's hand--not that Mary is interested in him. There is a surprise ending to the story, of course. All the characters are beautifully drawn, and this little book is quite a masterpiece. It was published by the Society for the Promotion of Christian Knowledge, and must have been within their guidelines, without being excessively pious. Do read it--it won't take you long. NH ________________________________________________________________________ A LIFE'S ECLIPSE, BY GEORGE MANVILLE FENN. CHAPTER ONE. "What insolence!" John Grange's brown, good-looking face turned of a reddish-brown in the cheeks, the warm tint mounting into his forehead, as he looked straight in the speaker's eyes, and there was a good, manly English ring in his voice as he said sturdily-- "I didn't know, Mr Ellis, that it was insolent for a man to come in a straightforward way, and say to the father of the young lady simply-- yes, and humbly--`I love your daughter, sir.'" "But it is, sir, downright insolence. Recollect what you are, sir, only an under-gardener living at the bothy on thirty shillings a week." "I do recollect it, sir, but I don't mean to be an under-gardener always." "Oh, indeed," said James Ellis sarcastically, "but poor old Dunton is not dead yet, and when he does die, Mrs Mostyn is quite as likely to appoint Daniel Barnett to his place as you, and if she takes my advice, she'll give the post to neither of you, but get some able, sensible man from Chiswick." "But, Mr Ellis--" "That will do, John Grange," said the owner of that name pompously. "I know what you are going to say. I am not ashamed of having been only a gardener once, but I am Mrs Mostyn's bailiff and agent now, sir, and, so to speak, your master. Let me hear no more of this nonsense, sir. That will do. But one moment. Have you had the--I mean, does Mary--I mean, does Miss Ellis know that you were going to speak to me this evening?" "No, sir," said John Grange sternly. "I'm only an under-gardener, but I've heard that it was the proper thing to speak out openly first." "Then Mary does not know that you--I mean, that you think about her?" "I hope and believe she does; sir," said the young man warmly, and his eyes flashed, and a proud, joyful look came into his countenance. "Then I beg you will not hope and believe anything of the kind, sir, again. My daughter will do precisely as I wish, and when I part with her, it will be to see her go to a substantial home. Good-evening!" James Ellis tucked his walking-stick under his arm, took off his grey felt hat, drew a red silk handkerchief from the crown, rubbed his bald head, and made himself look hotter as he strode away, while after standing and watching him go toward the bailiff's cottage just outside the park fence at The Hollows on the hill slope, a quarter of a mile away, the young man uttered a sigh and turned in at an open doorway in a high wall, whose top was fringed with young shoots of peaches, nectarines, and apricots, suggestive of the horticultural treasures within. "What a slap in the face!" he muttered. "Under-gardener! Well, that's all right. Give poor old Dunton's place to Dan Barnett! Here, I can't go in now, I must walk this off." John Grange pulled the open door to, so that it fastened with a snap, and turned off to make for the woods, where he could think alone. His way was for a couple of hundred yards toward the pretty villa known as the bailiff's cottage, and he had not gone half that distance when a sudden pang shot through him. For the place stood high, and he caught sight of two figures in the garden, one that of a man, the other that of some one in white muslin and a straw hat, coming toward the gate. The next minute the man was in the road, and half a minute later he was standing talking to Mrs Mostyn's agent, while the white muslin that had been so plainly seen amongst the shrubs had disappeared into the cottage. John Grange's face grew dark with a look of despair, and he did not go off into the woods. Dan Barnett, up there at the cottage talking to Mary, while he had been speaking to her father, and she had come down to the gate with her visitor. Something very like a groan escaped the young man's lips as he crossed the road to lean his arms upon the gate, and looked over into the park, feeling more miserable than ever before in his life. "I'm a poor, weak fool," he thought. "He's good-looking, and knows the way to a girl's heart. Better keep to my nailing and pruning. One from the father, two from Dan Barnett. Regular knock-down blows. Better get up again, go to work and forget it all--if I can." "Nice evening, John Grange. Drop o' rain coming?" "Eh? Yes, I think so, Tummus," said the young man, turning to the dry, quaint old fellow who had spoken, and who now screwed up the bark on his face--it more resembled that than skin--showed three or four ancient, yellow teeth, and jerked his right thumb over his shoulder. "I say--see that? Young Dan Barnett going courtin', and now having it out with Miss Mary's dad. You mark my words, Mr John, sir, if poor old Dunton dies, and Dan Barnett steps into his shoes, there'll be a wedding yonder." "Think so, Tummus?" said John Grange, with a forced smile. "Aye, that's what I think, sir," said the old man, and then showing his gums as well as his teeth, he continued, "and I thinks this 'ere too-- that if I'd been a young, good-looking chap like some one I know, I wouldn't ha' let Dan Barnett shoulder me out, and stand in first with the prettiest and best young lady in these parts. Evening!" "Here, hi! You!" came from behind them, and the person in question strode up, looking frowning and angry. "You ca' me, Mr Dan?" "Yes; did you finish wheeling up that stuff?" "Aye; I fishened it all 'fore I left work. Good-evening." He left the two young men standing together, and there was a peculiar, malicious look in the fresh-comer's eyes as he gave John Grange a short nod. "Mrs Mostyn say anything to you 'bout the cedar?" "Yes; she said the broken stump was to be cut off to-morrow." "Then you'd better get the ladders and ropes ready first thing." "You mean _we_ had better," said John Grange quietly. "No, I don't. I'm not going to break my neck for thirty shillings a week. Heard how Dunton is?" "Very bad. Doctor Manning was here again this evening." "Well, he's nearly ninety--a man can't expect to live for ever. Time he did go." John Grange walked away toward the head-gardener's cottage to ask for the last news, and Daniel Barnett stood watching him with a frown on his rather handsome features. "Poor old Dunton!" said John Grange to himself; "we shall miss him when he's gone." "Hang him!" muttered Barnett, "that's it. I saw him talking to the old man, but he hasn't won yet. Insolence, eh? I like that. The Barnetts are as good as the Ellis's, anyhow. Wait a bit, my lady, and I may take a bit of the pride out of you." Some men have a habit of thinking across the grain. CHAPTER TWO. At seven o'clock next morning John Grange felt better when he stood with Daniel Barnett, old Tummus, and Mary Ellis's father at the foot of the great cedar facing the house, a tree sadly shorn of its beauty by a sudden squall that had swept down the valley, and snapped off the top, where an ugly stump now stood out forty feet from the lawn. Grange felt better, for in spite of his hectoring, triumphant manner, it was plain to see that Daniel Barnett had not sped well with Mary's father, whatever might have been his success with the lady herself. James Ellis was no longer young, and early work before breakfast had grown distasteful; still, he had come to see the broken stump sawn off. The ladder had been raised, and got into position, but it was too short by ten feet, and there was an awkward climb before the man who went up could use the saw or attach the rope to keep the sawn-off stump from falling with a crash. "Well," said Ellis, "what are we waiting for?" Old Tummus chuckled. "Why when I first come to these here gardens five-and-forty years ago, I'd ha' gone up there like a squirrel, Mr Ellis, sir; but these here fine new-fangled gardeners can't do as we did." "Better go up now," said Barnett. "Nay, nay, my lad, sixty-eight's a bit too ripe for climbing trees, eh, Master Ellis?" "Yes, of course," said the bailiff. "Come, get it done." "Do you hear, John Grange?" said Barnett. "Up with you. Better hitch the rope under that big bough, and saw the next. Make it well fast before you begin to saw." "I thought Mrs Mostyn told you to go up and cut it?" said Ellis pompously; "and I heard you tell her how you should do it?" "Or have it done, sir. Here, up with you, John." John Grange felt annoyed at the other's manner in the presence of the bailiff. There was a tone--a hectoring way--which nettled him the more that they were precisely equal in status at the great gardens; and, besides, there were Mary and old Tummus's words. He had, he knew, let this rather overbearing fellow-servant step in front of him again and again, and this morning he felt ready to resent it, as the blood came into his cheeks. "Well, what are you waiting for?" cried Barnett. "Up with you!" "If it was your orders, why don't you go?" retorted Grange. Barnett burst into a hoarse fit of laughter, and turned to the bailiff. "Hear that, sir? He's afraid. Ha-ha-ha! Well, well! I did think he had some pluck." "Perhaps I have pluck enough," said the young man, "even if it is an awkward job, but I don't see why I'm to be bullied into doing your work." "I thought so," continued Barnett, "white feather! Talk away, John, you can't hide it now." Old Tummus showed his yellow stumps. "He can't do it, Mr Dan," he chuckled. "You're the chap to go up. You show him how to do it." "You hold your tongue. Speak when you're spoken to," said Barnett fiercely; and the old man chuckled the more as Barnett turned to John Grange. "Now then, are you afraid to go up? Because if so, say so, and I'll do it." John Grange glanced at the bailiff, and then stooped and picked up the coil of rope, passed it over his shoulder, and then seized the saw. He mounted the ladder, and clinging to the tree, stood on the last round, and then climbing actively, mounted the remaining ten feet to where he could stand upon a branch and attach the rope to the stump, pass the end over a higher bough and lower it down to the others. Then rolling his sleeves right up to the shoulder, he began to cut, the keen teeth of the saw biting into the soft, mahogany-like wood, and sending down the dust like sleet. It was a good half-hour's task to cut it through, but the sturdy young fellow worked away till only a cut or two more was necessary, and then he stopped. "Ready below?" he said, glancing down. "All right!" cried Ellis. "Cut clean through, so that it does not splinter." "Yes, sir," shouted Grange; and he was giving the final cuts, when for some reason, possibly to get the rope a little farther along, Barnett gave it a sharp jerk, with the effect that the nearly free piece of timber gave way with a sharp crash, just as John Grange was reaching out to give the last cut. Cedar snaps like glass. Down went the block with a crash to the extent the rope would allow, and there swung like a pendulum. Down, too, went Grange, overbalanced. He dropped the saw, and made a desperate snatch at a bough in front, and he caught it, and hung in a most precarious way for a few moments. "Quick!" he shouted to Barnett; "the ladder!" Ellis and old Tummus held the rope, not daring to let go and bring the piece of timber crashing down. Barnett alone was at liberty to move the ladder; and he stood staring up, as if paralysed by the danger and by the thought that the man above him was his rival, for whose sake he had been, only a few hours before, refused. But it was only a matter of seconds. John Grange's fingers were already gliding over the rough bark; and before Barnett could throw off the horrible mental chains which bound him, the young man uttered a low, hoarse cry, and fell headlong through the air. CHAPTER THREE. "How do you say it happened?" Old Tummus was riding in the doctor's gig back to The Hollows after running across to the village for help; and he now repeated all he knew, with the additions of sundry remarks about these new-fangled young "harticult'ral gardeners who know'd everything but their work." "Come right down on his head, poor lad," he said; "but you'll do your best for him, doctor: don't you let him slip through your fingers." The doctor smiled grimly, and soon after drew up at the door in the garden wall, and hurried through to the bothy where John Grange had been carried and lay perfectly insensible, with Mrs Mostyn, a dignified elderly widow lady, who had hurried out as soon as she had heard of the accident, bathing his head, and who now anxiously waited till the doctor's examination was at an end. "Well, doctor," said Mrs Mostyn eagerly, "don't keep me in suspense." "I must," he replied gravely. "It will be some time before I can say anything definite. I feared fractured skull, but there are no bones broken." "Thank heaven!" said Mrs Mostyn piously. "Such a frank, promising young man--such an admirable florist. Then he is not going to be very bad?" "I cannot tell yet. He is perfectly insensible, and in all probability he will suffer from the concussion to the brain, and spinal injury be the result." "Oh, doctor, I would have given anything sooner than this terrible accident should have occurred. Pray forgive me--would you like assistance?" "Yes: of a good nurse. If complications arise, I will suggest the sending for some eminent man." Many hours elapsed before John Grange opened his eyes from what seemed to be a deep sleep; and then he only muttered incoherently, and old Tummus's plump, elderly wife, who was famed in the district for her nursing qualities, sat by the bedside and shed tears as she held his hand. "Such a bonny lad," she said, "I wonder what Miss Mary'll say if he should die." Mary had heard the news at breakfast-time before her father had returned, but she made no sign, only looked very pale and grave. And as she dwelt upon the news she wondered what she would have said if John Grange had come to her and spoken as Daniel Barnett did on the previous evening. This thought made the colour come back to her cheeks and a strange fluttering to her breast as she recalled the different times they had met, and John Grange's tenderly respectful way towards her. Then she chased away her thoughts, for her mother announced from the window that "father" was coming. A minute later James Ellis entered, to sit down sadly to his breakfast, his silence being respected by mother and daughter. At last he spoke. "You heard, of course, about poor Grange?" "Yes. How is he?" "Bad--very bad. Doctor don't say much, but it's a serious case, I fear. Come right down on his head, close to my feet. There--I can't eat. Only fancy, mother, talking to me as he was last night, and now lying almost at the point of death." He pushed away cup and plate, and sat back in his chair. "`In the midst of life we are in death,'" he muttered. "Dear, dear, I wish I hadn't spoken so harshly to him last night, mother. Fine, straightforward young fellow, and as good a gardener as ever stepped." Mrs Ellis sighed and glanced at her daughter, who was looking wildly from one to the other. "There; I'll get back. Ah! Who's this?" It was Daniel Barnett, who had run up from the bothy; and Ellis hurried out to the door. "What is it?" he cried anxiously. "Old Hannah says, `Will you come on:' She don't like the looks of him. He's off his head." Ellis caught his hat from the peg, and glanced at Daniel Barnett with a peculiar thought or two in his head as the young man looked quickly at the door and window. Barnett caught the glance and felt uncomfortable, for though sorry for his fellow-worker's accident, certain thoughts would intrude relating to his own prospects if John Grange were not at The Hollows. They hurried down to the grounds, mother and daughter watching from the window, and in those few minutes a great change came over Mary Ellis's face. It was as if it rapidly altered from that of the happy, careless girl, who went singing about the house, to the thoughtful, anxious woman. Even her way of speaking was different, as she turned quickly upon her mother. "What was father so angry about last night?" she said. "Did he have a quarrel with poor Mr Grange?" "Well, hardly a quarrel, my dear. Oh, it was nothing." "But he said he was sorry he spoke so harshly to him. Mother, you are keeping something back." "Well, well, well, my darling, nothing much; only young men will be young men; and father was put out by his vanity and conceit. He actually got talking to father about you." "About me?" said Mary, flushing, and beginning to tremble. "Yes, my dear; and, as father said, it was nothing short of impudence for a young man in his position to think about you. I don't know what's come to the young men now-a-days, I'm sure." Mary said nothing, but she was very thoughtful all that day, and during the days which followed, for she had found out the truth about herself, and a little germ that had been growing in her breast, but of which she had thought little till Daniel Barnett came up and spoke, and made her know she had a heart--a fact of which she became perfectly sure, when the news reached her next morning of the sad accident in the grounds. CHAPTER FOUR. Old Hannah's fears were needless, for the delirium passed away; and as the days glided by and poor Grange lay in his darkened bedroom, untiringly watched by old Tummus's patient wife, James Ellis used to take the tidings home till the day when in secret Mary went up afterwards to her own room to sink upon her knees by her bedside, and hide her burning face in her hands, as if guiltily, while she offered up her prayer and thanksgiving for all that she had heard. For the doctor had definitely said that John Grange would not die from the effects of his fall. "Thank you, Tummus, old man," said the patient, one evening about a fortnight after the accident; and he took a bunch of roses in his hand. "I can't see them, but they smell deliciously. Hah! How it makes me long to be back again among the dear old flowers." "Aye, to be sure, my lad. You mun mak' haste and get well and get out to us again. Dan Barnett arn't half the man you are among the missus's orchardses. And look here, I want my old woman home again. You mun look sharp and get well." "Yes: I hope the doctor will soon let me get up. God bless you, Hannah! You've been quite like a mother to me." "Nonsense, nonsense, boy; only a bit o' nussing. Make haste and get well again." "Aye, she'd be a good nuss if she warn't quite so fond o' mustard," said old Tummus. "It's allus mustard, mustard, stuck about you to pingle and sting if there's owt the matter. I like my mustard on my beef. And that's what you want, Master John--some good slices o' beef. They women's never happy wi'out giving you spoon meat." "Hold your tongue, Tummus, and don't talk so much nonsense," said his wife. "Nay, I arn't going to be choked. I s'pose Mrs Mostyn sends you jellies and chicken-broth, and the like?" "Yes, every one is very kind," said Grange. "But look here, have you seen to the mushroom bed?" "Aye." "And those cuttings in the frames?" "You mak' haste and get well, Master John, and don't you worry about nowt. I'm seeing to everything quite proper, for I don't trust Master Dan Barnett a bit. He's thinking too much o' finding scuses to go up to the cottage, and I know why. There, good-night. Get well, lad. I do want to see that bandage from over your eyes next time I come. Old Dunton's mortal bad, they say. Good-night." It was a bad night for John Grange, who was so feverish that the doctor remarked upon it, and the progress was so poor during the next week that the doctor determined to have his patient up, and came one morning in company with the bailiff, talking to him seriously the while. They were very kind to him, helping him to dress, and helped him at last into the outer room, where it was light and cool, and old Hannah, with a face full of commiseration, had placed an easy-chair for the pale, weak man, with his eyes and head bandaged heavily. It so happened that just as John Grange lay back in the chair, while old Hannah stood with her handkerchief to her eyes, crying silently, and James Ellis was behind the chair looking very grave and stern, Daniel Barnett came up to the door of the bothy with a message, which he did not deliver, for the words he heard arrested him, and he drew back listening. "Now, doctor, please," sighed Grange; "it has been so hard to bear all this long time, and I have been very patient. Let me have the bandage off, and, if it's only a glimpse, one look at the bright sunshine again." There was silence for a moment, and then the doctor took the young man's hand, his voice shaking a little, as he said gravely-- "Grange, my lad, three weeks ago I felt that I could not save your life. God has heard our prayers, and let my poor skill avail. You will in a few weeks be as strong as ever." "Yes--yes," said the patient, in tones of humble thankfulness, and then his lips moved for a few moments, but no sound was heard. Then aloud--"Believe me, doctor, I am grateful. But the bandage. Let me see the light." "My poor fellow!" began the doctor, and old Hannah uttered a sob, "you must know." "Ah!" cried John Grange, snatching the bandage from his eyes, the broad handkerchief kept there ever since the fall. "Don't--don't tell me that--I--I was afraid--yes--dark--all dark! Doctor--doctor--don't tell me I am blind!" Old Hannah's sobs grew piteous, and in the silence which followed, James Ellis stole on tiptoe towards the window, unable to be a witness of the agony which convulsed the young man's face. "Then it is true!" said Grange. "Blind--blind from that awful shock." "Ah, here you are, Master Barnett," cried the voice of old Tummus outside. "The doctor. Is he coming over? 'Cause he needn't now." "What is the matter?" said Ellis, stepping out, with Daniel Barnett backing away from the porch before him. "Poor owd Dunton's gone, sir; dropped off dead ripe at last--just gone to sleep." James Ellis looked Daniel Barnett in the eyes, and both had the same thought in their minds. What a change in the younger man's prospects this last stroke of fate had made! CHAPTER FIVE. "I am very deeply grieved, Mr Manning," said Mrs Mostyn, as she sat in her drawing-room, holding a kind of consultation with the doctor and James Ellis, her old agent, and as she spoke, the truth of her words was very evident, for she kept applying her handkerchief to her eyes. "I liked John Grange. A frank, manly fellow, whose heart was in his work, and I fully intended, Ellis, that he should succeed poor old Dunton." "Yes, ma'am; a most worthy young man," said the bailiff. "Worthy? He was more than that. He was fond of his work and proud of the garden. Go in that conservatory, doctor, and look at my orchids. His skill was beyond question." "Your flowers are the envy of the county, Mrs Mostyn," said the doctor. "Ah, well! It is not my flowers in question, but this poor fellow's future. Do you mean to tell me that you can do nothing for him?" "I regret to say that I must," said the doctor gravely. "We try all we can to master Nature's mechanism, but I frankly confess that we are often very helpless. In this case the terrible shock of the fall on the head seems to have paralysed certain optical nerves. Time may work wonders, but I fear that his sight is permanently destroyed." "Oh, dear, dear, dear!" sighed Mrs Mostyn, down whose pleasant old face the tears now coursed unchecked; "and all to satisfy my whims--all because I objected to a ragged, broken branch. But, doctor, can nothing be done?" "I can only recommend one thing, madam--that he should go up to one of the specialists, who will suggest that he should stay in his private infirmary." "Well, why not?" said Mrs Mostyn eagerly. "There is the expense, madam," said the doctor hesitatingly. "Expense? Pooh! Fudge! People say I am very mean. Poor old Dunton used to say so, and James Ellis here." "I beg your pardon, ma'am--" began the bailiff. "Oh, don't deny it, James; you know you have. I heard of it over and over again, because I would not agree to some extravagant folly proposed by you or poor old Dunton for the estate or garden." "But--" "Silence! I remember Dunton said I could spend hundreds on new orchids, and stinted him in help; and you were quite angry because I wouldn't have half-a-mile of new park palings, when the old mossy ones look lovely. But I'm not mean, doctor, when there is a proper need for outlay. Now you go at once and make arrangements for that poor young man to be taken up to town and placed in this institution. Mind, you are to spare no expense. It was my fault that poor Grange lost his sight, and I shall never love my garden again if his eyes are not restored." The doctor rose, shook hands, and went away, leaving the bailiff with his mistress, who turned to him with her brow all in puckers. "Well, James Ellis, I hardly know what to say. It is a dreadful shock, and I don't like to do anything hastily. If there was a prospect of poor Grange recovering I would wait." The bailiff shook his head. "Doctor Manning told me, ma'am, that he was afraid it was hopeless." "And I'm afraid so too," said Mrs Mostyn, with a sigh. "I can't superintend the garden myself, ma'am." "No, Ellis, you have too much to do." "And gardens are gardens, ma'am--ours in particular." "Yes," said Mrs Mostyn, who was thinking of the poor fellow lying at the bothy in darkness. "And with all those glass-houses and their valuable contents, a day's neglect is never recovered." "No, James Ellis." "The men, too, want some one over them whom they must obey." "Of course--of course, Ellis. And you think Daniel Barnett is quite equal to the duties?" "Oh, yes, ma'am. He is quite as good a gardener as John Grange, so I don't think you could do better, ma'am. You see we know him, that he is trustworthy and clever." "Well, well, I'll think about it. I will not decide this morning; but I suppose it will have to be so. I can't go appointing another man directly the breath is out of poor old Dunton's body, and with that poor fellow lying there in misery. Come to me this day week, James Ellis, and I will give my decision." The bailiff bowed and withdrew, to go straight to the gardens, where, quite by accident, of course, Daniel Barnett came along one of the paths, and met him, looking at him inquiringly; but Ellis did not say a word about the subject nearest then to the young man's heart. He asked how the grapes were looking, and had a peep at them and the melons. Then went on through the orchid-houses, reeking with heat and moisture, and at last stood still wiping his head in the hot sunshine. "They do you credit, Barnett," he said. "I'm very glad to see how you have thrown yourself into the gap, and managed now poor John Grange is down; everything looks perfect. I see you have kept the men up to their work." "Done my best, Mr Ellis, of course," said the young man. "Of course, of course. I told Mrs Mostyn I was sure you would. There, I must be off. Good-morning." He started off for the gate, and then turned. "Oh, by the way, Barnett, poor John Grange is to be sent up to town. I thought you would like to hear. But don't say a word to him, and--er-- I'm always at home of an evening if you care to step up and have a quiet pipe with me, and a bit of music before supper. Good-morning." "The wind's changed," said Dan Barnett, with his face flushed up by the exultation he felt. "I'm safe two ways. Poor old Jack Grange! Well, we can't all win." CHAPTER SIX. The week, had passed, and Daniel Barnett had been up to the cottage twice while John Grange lay in the dark. The welcome had been warm enough from James Ellis; Mrs Ellis had been lukewarm and wary. "Ah, well, that will come," said the young man to himself on the previous evening, after he had received his instructions from the bailiff about the fly to the station, and his duties in taking charge of John Grange, and going up with him to the little private infirmary where he was to stay for a few months if necessary. "Poor chap! I'm sorry for him, but, as I said before, we can't all win." The day for John Grange's departure had come, and he lay back upon a little couch fighting hard to bear his misfortune like a man, and think hopefully of his future. Mrs Mostyn had been to see him four times, and spoke in the most motherly way as she prophesied a successful issue to the journey; but only left him more low-spirited as he thought of Mary and his and her future. The couch was close to the open window, where he could feel the warm sunshine, and old Hannah had left him for a short time alone to go and finish packing his little bag, while Daniel Barnett in his best was waiting to see James Ellis, when he came from the house, receive his final instructions, and then have the fly brought to the garden-door for John Grange. He had quite half-an-hour to wait before Ellis appeared, and on joining him held out his hand. "Good-bye, sir," said Barnett, "but I shall see you at the bothy. I'll take great care of the poor fellow." "I meant to congratulate you, Dan Barnett, our new head-gardener," said Ellis. "Mrs Mostyn confirms your appointment. Success to you! Now come on to the bothy, and let's get that poor fellow off. I'll let him know of it by and by--not for a week or two yet." But John Grange, as he lay there, was feeling sure that the appointment would be given to Barnett, and he only sighed in a hopeless way, and felt that it was just. And just then he heard a step and pulled himself together. "Come in," he said, trying to speak cheerily. "No mistaking your fairy footsteps, Tummus. I thought you'd come and say good-bye." "Aye, and come to the station too, my lad. And I mean to come up to the orspittle once a week, to bring you a bit o' fruit and a few flowers, if I have to walk." "Thank you, old man; thank you." "You need a bit o' comfort, my lad, and I want you to get right. That old 'ooman's drying hersen up wi' crying about you. There wean't be a drop o' mysture left in her by and by. Ah! It's a strange world." "It never felt so beautiful before, old man," said John Grange sadly. "Thought I'd try and comfort you up a bit. S'pose you know that Dan Barnett's safe to be the new head?" "Yes, I suppose so, Tummus." "Yah! Means ruins to the grand old place." "Nonsense! Dan is a thoroughly good gardener when he likes." "Aye, when he likes," said the old man; and he suddenly subsided into silence, which lasted some minutes, during which John Grange was very thoughtful. Then, suddenly starting, the invalid said-- "There, old fellow, don't run down a good man. It was to be." There was a deep sigh. "Don't do that, old chap," said John. "It isn't cheering. I don't mind it so very much. But you must go now; I want to think a bit before they fetch me. Good-bye, and thank you and your dear old wife for all she has done. It's no use to fight against it, old man; I'm going to be always in the dark, I know well enough, so you may as well try and train up some dog to lead me about when I come back, for Heaven only knows what's to become of me. But there, say good-bye. My old mother shan't have taught me to kneel down and say every night, `thy will be done!' for nothing. There--shake hands and go," he said, trying to command his trembling voice--"before I break down and cry like a girl, just when I want to act the man." He stretched out his hand again, and it closed, but not upon old Tummus's horny palm, but ringers that were soft and warm, and clung to his; and as that little, soft, trembling hand seemed to nestle there, John Grange uttered a hoarse cry. "Who--who is this?" he whispered then. For answer there was a quick, rustling sound, as of some one kneeling down by the couch, and then there was wild sobbing and panting as a soft, wet cheek was laid against his hands. "Miss Ellis--Mary!" he cried wildly; and the answer came at once. "Oh, John, John, I could not bear it--I could not let you go without one word." CHAPTER SEVEN. In those few joyous moments the darkness became light, dazzling light, to John Grange; misery, despair, the blank life before him, had dropped away, and the future spread out in a vista wherein hope shone brightly, and all was illumined by the sweet love of a true-hearted woman. He would have been less than man if he had not drawn the half-shrinking, half-yielding figure to his heart, and held Mary tightly there as, amidst tears and sobs, she confessed how she had long felt that he loved her, but doubted herself the reality of the new sensation which had made her pleased to see him, while when she met him as they spoke something seemed to urge her to avoid him, and look hard, distant, and cold. Then the terrible misfortune had come, and she knew the truth; the bud grew and had opened, and she trembled lest any one should divine her secret, till she knew that he was to go away believing that she might care for Daniel Barnett; in suffering and mental pain, needing all that those who cared for him could do to soften his pitiable case; and at last, believing that she alone could send him away hopeful and patient to bear his awful infirmity, she had cast off all reserve and come to say good-bye. "And you will not think the less of me?" she whispered appealingly. "Think the less of you!" he cried proudly; "how can you ask that? Mary, you send me away happy. I shall go patient and hopeful, believing that the doctors can and will give me back my sight, and ready to wait till I may come back to you, my own love--for I do love you, dear. This year past my every thought has been of you, and I have worked and studied to make myself worthy, but always in despair, for I felt that you could not care for one like me, and that--" "How could you think it?" she whispered tenderly, as she nestled to him. "I never, never could have cared for him, John, nor for any one but you." And for those brief minutes all was the brightest of life's sunshine in that humble room. There were tears in Mary's sweet grey eyes, and they clung upon the lashes and lay wet upon her cheeks; but that sunshine made them flash irradiant with joy before the black cloud closed in again, and John Grange's pale face grew convulsed with agony, as he shrank from her, only holding her hands in his with a painful clasp; while, as she gazed at him wildly, startled by the change, she saw that his eyes seemed to be staring wildly at her, so bright, unchanged, and keen that it was impossible to believe that they were blank, so plainly did they bespeak the agony and despair in the poor fellow's breast. "John," she cried excitedly, "what is it? Shall I go for help? You are in terrible pain?" "Yes, yes, dear," he moaned; "pain so great that it is more than I can bear. No, no, don't go, not for a minute, dear; but go then, never to come near me more. Don't, don't tempt me. God help me and give me strength." "John, dear," he whispered piteously, as she clung to his hands, and he felt her press towards him till the throbbings of her heart beat upon his wrists. "No, no," he groaned. "Mary, dear, let me tell you while I have strength. I should be no man if I was silent now. I shouldn't be worthy of you, dear, nor of the love you have shown me you could have given." "John, John!" "Don't, don't speak to me like that," he groaned, "or you will make me forget once more, and speak to you as I did just now. I was half mad with joy, beside myself with the sweet delight. But 'tis taking a coward's, a cruel advantage of you in your innocence and love. Mary, Mary dear," he said faintly; and could those eyes which stared so blankly towards her have seen, he would have gazed upon the calm, patient face, upon which slowly dawned a gentle tenderness, as she bent lower and lower as if longing to kiss his hands, which she caressed with her warm breath, while she listened to his words. "Listen, dear," he said, "and let me tell you the truth before you say good-bye, and go back to pray for me--for your own dear self--that we may be patient and bear it. Time will make it easier, and by and by we can look back upon all this as something that might have been." "Yes," she said gently, and she raised her face a little as she knelt by the couch to gaze fondly in his eyes. "I am going away, dear, and it is best, for what we have said must be like a dream. Mary, dear, you will not forget me, but you must think of me as a poor brother smitten with this affliction, one, dear, that I have to bear patiently to the end." "Yes, John," she said, with a strange calmness in her tones. "How could I let you tie yourself down to a poor helpless wretch who will always be dependent upon others for help? It would be a death in life for you, Mary. In my great joy I forgot it all; but my reason has come back. There is no hope, dear. I am going up to town because Mrs Mostyn wishes it. Heaven bless her for a good, true woman! But it is of no use, I know. Doctor Manning knows it well enough. My sight has gone, dear, and I must face the future like a man. You well know I am speaking the truth." She tried to reply, but there was a suffocating sensation at her throat, and it was some moments before she could wildly gasp out--"Yes!" Then the strange, sweet, patient look of calm came back, with the gentle pity and resignation in her eyes as she gazed at him with sorrow. "There," he said, "you must go now. Bless you, Mary--bless you, dear. You have sent gladness and a spirit of hopefulness into my dark heart, and I am going away ready to bear it all manfully, for I know it will be easier to bear--by and by--when I get well and strong. Then you shall hear how patient I am, and some day in the future I shall be pleased in hearing, dear, that you are happy with some good, honest fellow who loves and deserves you; and perhaps too," he continued, talking quickly and with a smile upon his lip, as he tried to speak cheerfully in his great desire to lessen her grief and send her away suffering less keenly--"perhaps too, some day, I may be able to come and see--" He broke down. He could, in his weak state, bear no more, and with a piteous cry he snatched away his hands and covered his convulsed features, as he lay back there quivering in every nerve. And then from out of the deep, black darkness, mental and bodily, which closed him in, light shone out once more, as, gently and tenderly, a slight soft arm glided round his neck, and a cold, wet cheek was laid against his hands, while in low, measured tones, every word spoken calmly, almost in a whisper, but thrilling the suffering man to the core, Mary murmured-- "I never knew till now how much a woman's duty in life is to help and comfort those who suffer. John, dear, I have listened to everything you said, and feel it no shame now to speak out all that is in my heart. I always liked the frank, straightforward man who spoke to me as if he respected me; who never gave me a look that was not full of the reverence for me that I felt was in his breast. You never paid me a compliment, never talked to me but in words which I felt were wise and true. You made me like you, and now, once more, I tell you that when this trouble came I learned that I loved you. John, dear, this great affliction has come to you--to us both, and I know you will learn to bear it in your own patient, wise way." "Yes, yes," he groaned; "but blind--blind! Mary--for pity's sake leave me--in the dark--in the dark." She rose from her knees by his side, and he uttered a sob, for he felt that she was going; but she retained one of his hands between hers in a firm, cool clasp. "No, dear," she said softly; "those who love are one. John Grange, I will never leave you, and your life shall not be dark. Heaven helping me, it shall be my task to lighten your way. You shall see with my eyes, dear; my hand shall always be there to guide you wherever you may go; and some day in the future, when we have grown old and grey, you shall look back, dear, with your strong, patient mind, and then tell me that I have done well, and that your path in life has not been dark." "Mary," he groaned, "for pity's sake don't tempt me; it is more than I can bear." "It is no temptation, John," she said softly, and in utter ignorance that there were black shadows across her and the stricken man, she bent down and kissed his forehead. "Last Sunday only, in church, I heard these words--`If aught but death part me and thee.'" She sank upon her knees once more, and with her hands clasped together and resting upon his breast, her face turned heavenwards, her eyes closed and her lips moving as if in prayer, while the two shadows which had been cast on the sunlight from the door softly passed away, James Ellis and Daniel Barnett stepping back on to the green, and standing looking in each other's eyes, till the sound of approaching wheels was heard. Then assuming that they had that moment come up, James Ellis and the new head-gardener strode once more up to the door. CHAPTER EIGHT. Ellis had been so thoroughly astounded upon seeing Mary kneeling by John Grange's side that he had made a quick sign to Barnett to come away; and as soon as they were at a short distance from the door he felt that his action had been ill-judged, and likely to excite the derision of his companion, whom he had begun now to think of as a possible son-in-law. "Wretched--foolish girl!" he said to himself, and leading the way, they both entered the bothy. "Mary!" he cried angrily, "I am here. What is the meaning of this?" Daniel Barnett, who was quivering with jealous rage, expected to see the bailiff's daughter spring to her feet, flushed with shame and dread, at being surprised in such a position, but to his astonishment she hardly stirred, merely raising her head a little to look gently and sadly in her father's face as she said-- "I have come to bid poor John Grange good-bye." "Without my leave!" stormed Ellis, "and like this. Mary! Shameless girl, have you taken leave of your senses?" She smiled at him sadly, and shook her head. "Disgraceful!" cried Ellis. "What will Mr Barnett--what will every one think of your conduct?" He caught her hand in his rage, and drew her sharply away as he turned to John Grange. "And you, sir, what have you to say? Your weakness and injury are no excuse. Everything possible has been done for you. We have all worked for you, and tried to lighten your affliction; even now I have come with Mr Barnett to see you off, and I find my kindness returned by a cruel, underhanded, cowardly blow." "Mr Ellis," began John, with his pale face flushing and his dark eyes wandering as he tried to fix them upon the speaker's face. "Silence, sir! How dare you! How long has this disgraceful business been going on?" "Oh, father, father!" cried Mary, clinging to him; "pray, pray say no more. We are not alone." "No," cried Ellis, who had now worked himself into a towering passion; "we are not alone. Mr Barnett is here, a witness to the way in which this man has prevailed upon you to set all common decency at defiance, and come here alone. How long, I repeat, has this disgraceful business been going on?" Mary was about to speak, but at that moment John Grange raised himself upon his elbow and said firmly-- "One moment, please, Mr Ellis; this is a matter solely between you and me. If Daniel Barnett is here, surely it is his duty, as a man, to go." "I don't take my instructions from you, sir," cried Ellis; "and I beg and desire that Mr Barnett will stay and hear what I have to say to you--you miserable, underhanded, contemptible hound." John Grange flushed, and noted the "Mr" applied again and again to his fellow-worker, and a pang of disappointment shot through him as he fully grasped what it meant. "You are angry and bitter, sir," he said, though calmly, "and are saying things which you will regret. There has been nothing underhanded. That I have long loved Miss Ellis, I am proud to say; but until this present time no word has passed between us, and I have never, as you know, addressed her as a lover." "Oh yes, you say so," cried Ellis angrily. "You talked finely enough the other day, but what about now? So this is the way in which you carry out your high principles, deluding a silly child into coming here for this clandestine interview, and making her--a baby as she is, and not knowing her own mind--believe that you are a perfect hero, and entangling her with your soft speeches into I don't know what promises." "It is not true, sir," said John Grange sadly. "How do I know it is not true, sir? Bah! It is true! I come here and find you and this shameless girl locked in each other's arms." "Father!" cried Mary, snatching away her hand, and before Ellis could arrest her, going back to John Grange's side to lay that hand upon his shoulder, "I cannot stand here and listen to your cruel, unjust words; John Grange is not to blame, it was my doing entirely." "Shame upon you, then!" "No, it is no shame," she cried proudly. "You force me to defend myself before another, and I will speak out now before the man who has for long enough pestered me with his attentions, and whom, during these past few days, you have made your friend and encouraged to come home; let him hear then that I feel it no shame to say I love John Grange very dearly, and that I would not let him leave here, weak, suffering, and in the dark, without knowing that his love was returned." Then, bending down, she took John Grange's hand, and raised it to her lips. "Good-bye!" she said softly. "Mary!" cried her father, beside himself now with rage; and he once more snatched her away. "Yes, father, I am ready," she said quietly; "and you, who are always so good and just, will tell John Grange that you have cruelly misjudged him, before he goes." But James Ellis did not then, for drawing his child's arm through his own, he hurried her away from the bothy, and home in silence to the cottage, where she flung herself sobbing in her mother's arms, and crouched there, listening, while the angry man walked up and down, relieving himself of all he had seen. Mrs Ellis's pleasant countenance grew full of puckers, and she sat in silence, softly patting Mary's shoulder with one hand, holding her tightly with the other, till her husband had ended with-- "Disgraceful--disgraceful, I say. I don't know what Mrs Mostyn would think if she knew." "Well, I don't know, my dear," sighed Mrs Ellis, with the tears gently trickling down her cheeks, and dropping one by one like dew-drops on Mary's beautiful hair. "Mrs Mostyn has been a dear, good mistress to us." "Yes, and a pretty business for her to hear--our child degrading herself like this." "'Tis very sad, James, but Mrs Mostyn made a runaway match with Captain Mostyn." "Eliza, are you mad too?" "No, James, dear; but I'm afraid these are mysteries that men don't quite understand." "Bah!" "But they do not, dear. If you remember, my poor dear dad and your father were very angry about your wanting me. Dad said you were only a common gardener, but I felt--" "Woman, you are as bad as your daughter," raged James Ellis. "Was I a poor blind man?" "No, my dear; for you always had very, very fine eyes, but--" "Bah!" raged out James Ellis; and he went out and banged the door. CHAPTER NINE. John Grange's journey to London was performed almost in silence, for as he sat back in the corner of the carriage, weak and terribly shaken by the scene through which he had passed, Daniel Barnett sat opposite to him, wishing that they did not live in a civilised country, but somewhere among savages who would think no ill of one who rid himself of a useless, troublesome rival. But after a time rage gave way to contempt. He felt that he had nothing to fear from the helpless object in question. Mary never looked more attractive than when she stood up there defending the poor blind fellow before him. "If I could only get her to be as fond of me, and ready to stick up for me like that!" he thought; and he softly rubbed his hands together. "And I will," he muttered. "She's very young, and it was quite natural. She'll soon forget poor old blind Jack, and then--but we shall see. Head-gardener at The Hollows, and James Ellis willing. I shall win, my lad, and step into the old man's shoes as well." He parted from John Grange at the infirmary, and somehow the darkness did not seem so black to the sufferer for some days. For he was full of hope, a hope which grew stronger as the time went by. Then old Tummus came up to see him, and gladdened his heart with old-fashioned chatter about the garden, obstinately dwelling upon the "taters," and cabbages, and codlin and cat's-head apples, when the patient was eager to hear about the orchids, grapes, pines, and melons, which he pictured as he had seen them last. But Mary's name was not mentioned, for John Grange had thought the matter out. It was impossible, he said, and time would soften the agony for both--unless his stay here proved of avail. But the days glided by--a week--a fortnight--a month--then two months, during which specialists had seen him, consultations had been held; and then came the day when old Tummus was up in town again, with flowers and fruit, which John Grange took round the ward from patient to patient, walking slowly, but with little to show that he was blind, as he distributed the presents he had received, and said good-bye to his dark companions. For the verdict had been passed by the profession who had seen him that they could do nothing, and Mrs Mostyn had sent word that Grange was to be fetched back, old Tummus and his wife gladly acceding to the proposal that the young man should lodge with them for a few weeks, till arrangements could be made for his entrance to some asylum, or some way hit upon for him to get his living free from the misery of having nothing to do. "Cheer up, my lad!" said the old man, as they were on their way back. "I do, old fellow," said John Grange quietly. "I have been two months in that place, and it has taught me patience. There, I am never going to repine." "You're as patient as a lamb, my dear," said old Hannah the next day; "and it's wonderful to see how you go about and don't look blind a bit. Why, you go quite natural-like into our bit of garden, and begin feeling the plants." "Yes," he said, "I feel happier then. I've been thinking, Hannah, whether a blind man could get his living off an acre of ground with plants and flowers that he could not see, but would know by the smell." "Well, you do cap me, my dear," said the old woman. "I don't know." And then to herself, "Look at him, handsome and bright-eyed--even if he can't see, I don't see why he shouldn't manage to marry his own dear love after all. There'd be an eye apiece for them, there would, and an Eye above all-seeing to watch over 'em both." And old Hannah wiped her own, as she saw John Grange stoop down and gently caress a homely tuft of southern-wood, passing his hands over it, inhaling the scent, and then talking to himself, just as Mrs Mostyn came up to the garden hedge, and stood watching him, holding up her hand to old Hannah, to be silent, and not let him know that she was there. CHAPTER TEN. "Wait and see, my lad, wait and see," said James Ellis. "There, there: we're in no hurry. You've only just got your appointment, and, as you know well enough, women are made of tender stuff. Very soft, Dan, my boy. Bless 'em, they're very nice though. We grow in the open air; they grow under glass, as you may say. We're outdoor plants; they're indoor, and soft, and want care. Polly took a fancy to poor John Grange, and his misfortune made her worse. He became a sort of hero for her school-girl imagination, and if you were to worry her, and I was to come the stern father, and say, You must marry Dan Barnett, what would be the consequences? She'd mope and think herself persecuted, and be ready to do anything for his sake." Daniel Barnett sighed. "There, don't be a fool, man," said Ellis, clapping him on the shoulder. "Have patience. My Pol--Mary is as dear and good a girl as ever stepped, and as dutiful. What we saw was all sentiment and emotion. She's very young, and every day she'll be growing wiser and more full of commonplace sense. Poor John Grange has gone." "But he has come back, and is staying with old Tummus." "Yes, yes, I know, but only for a few days, till Mrs Mostyn has settled something about him. She's a dear, good mistress, Dan, and I'd do anything for her. She consulted me about it only the other day. She wants to get him into some institution; and if she can't she'll pension him off somewhere. I think he'll go to some relatives of his out Lancashire way. But, anyhow, John Grange is as good as dead, so far as your career is concerned. You've got the post he was certain to have had, for the mistress was very fond of John." "Yes; he'd got the length of her foot, and no mistake, sir." "Well, well, you can do the same. She loves her flowers, and poor John was for his age as fine a florist as ever lived. She saw that, and of course it pleased her. All you have to do is to pet her orchids, and make the glass-houses spick and span, keep the roses blooming, and-- there, I needn't preach to you, Daniel, my lad; you're as good a gardener as poor John Grange, and your bread is buttered on both sides for life." "Not quite, sir," cried the young man quietly. "All right; I know what you mean." "Then you consent, sir?" "Oh, no, I don't. I only say to you, wait and see. I'm not going to promise anything, and I'm not going to have my comfortable home made miserable by seeing wife and child glum and ready to burst out crying. I'm not going to force that tender plant, Dan. Mary's a sensible girl, and give her time and she'll see that it is impossible for her to spend her life playing stick, or little dog, to a blind man. She shall see that her father wishes what is best for her, and in the end the pretty little fruit, which is only green now, will become ripe, and drop into some worthy young fellow's hands. If his name is Daniel Barnett, well and good. We shall see. All I want is to see my pet go to a good home and be happy." Daniel Barnett held out his hand. "No, no; I'm going to clinch no bargains, and I'm not going to be bothered about this any more. Your policy is to wait. The seed's sown. I dare say it will come up some day. Now then, business. About Maitland Williams?" "Well, Mr Ellis, you know him as well as I do. Admiral Morgan can't give him a rise because the other men are all right, and he wants to be a step higher, and be all under glass. He has spoken to me twice. He says he wouldn't have done so, only poor John Grange was of course out of it, and he didn't think that we had any one who could be promoted." "That's quite right. He has been to me three times, and I don't see that we could do better. Think you could get on with him?" "Oh, yes, he's all right, sir." "Very well, then; I'm going up to the house to see the mistress about the hay. Nixon wants to buy it again this year." "And take all the mowing off our hands, sir?" "Yes, I suppose you would rather not spare the men to make it ourselves." "Well, sir, you know the season as well as I do. There's no end of things asking to be done." "Yes, I shall advise her to let it go, and I'll ask her to sanction Williams being taken on. He says he can come and fill poor Grange's place at once." They parted, Daniel Barnett to go and begin tying up some loose strands in the vinery, and trim out some side-growth which interfered with the ripening of the figs; James Ellis to walk up to the house and ask to see Mrs Mostyn, who sent out word by the butler that she would be in the library in a few minutes. CHAPTER ELEVEN. Meanwhile there had been tears and trouble at the cottage, and Mary was sobbing in her mother's arms. "But it seems so hard, dear," she whispered; "he's there, and waiting hopefully in the dark for me to go to him and say a few kind and loving words." "That you can't go and say, dear. I know--I know, but you cannot go, my darling. Now, just think a bit: you know what father would say. He is certain to know that you have been, and it would be like flying in his face. Now come, come, do be patient and wait. Some day, perhaps, his sight may come back, and if it did I'm sure father loves you too well to stand in the way of your happiness." "But you don't think as he does, mother dear, so don't say you think he is right." "I'm afraid I must, dear, much as it goes against me to say so. It couldn't be, Mary--it couldn't indeed, my dear; and you know what you told me--how sensible and wise poor John Grange spoke about it himself. It would be a kind of madness, Mary, dear: so come, come, wipe your poor eyes. God knows what is best for us all, and when the afflictions come let's try to bear them patiently." "Yes, mother," cried Mary, hastily drying her eyes. "I will be patient and firm." "And you see, dear, that it would not be right for you to go down to old Hannah's. It would be, as I said, like flying in the face of father, who, I'm sure, has been as nice as could be about all you did that day." "Yes, mother," said Mary, with another sigh. "Then I will be patient and wait." "That's right, my darling. And there, now I'll tell you something I heard from father. Poor John Grange is not forgotten; Mrs Mostyn is trying to place him in a home, and if she doesn't, he's to go to some friends, and she's going to pension him for life." Mary sighed once more, a deeper, more painful sigh, one which seemed to tear its way through her heart, as in imagination she saw the fine manly fellow who had won that heart pursuing his dark road through life alone, desolate, and a pensioner. Up at the house James Ellis was not kept waiting long before there was a rustling sound, and Mrs Mostyn came in through the French window from the conservatory, which ran along one side of the house. She looked radiant and quite young, in spite of her sixty-five years and silver hair, and there was a happy smile upon her lip that brightened the tears in her eyes, as she nodded to her agent cheerfully, and held out a great bunch of newly-cut orchids, which she held in her hand. "Smell those, James Ellis. Look at them. Are they not beautiful?" "Yes, ma'am, and if you sent them to the Guildstone Show they'd take the first prize." "And the plants come back half spoiled. No, I don't think I shall. I have them grown for their beauty and perfection, not out of pride and emulation. You never used to grow me and my dear husband such flowers when you were head-gardener, James." "No, ma'am," said Ellis, smiling at his mistress, as she sat down, drew a great shallow china bowl to her side, and began to daintily arrange the quaint, beautifully-tinted blooms according to her taste; "no, ma'am, but there were no such orchids in those days." "Ah, no! That's forty years ago, James Ellis. Well, what is it this morning?" "About the big oak, ma'am. It is three parts dead, and in another year it will be gone. Of course, it's a bad time of year, but I thought if it was cut down now, I might--" "Don't! Never say a word to me again about cutting down a tree, James Ellis," cried his mistress angrily. The bailiff made a deprecating sign. "Let them stand till they die. Tell Barnett to plant some of that beautiful clematis to run over the dead branches. No more cutting down dead boughs while I live." "Very good, ma'am." "Is that all?" "No, ma'am; about the hay. Mr Nixon would be glad to have it at the market price." "Of course, let Mr Nixon have all you can spare. And now I'm very busy, James Ellis--by the way, how is your wife, and how is Mary?" "Quite well, thank you, ma'am," said the bailiff, hesitating, as he turned when half-way to the door. "I am glad of it. Mind that Mary has what flowers she likes for her little greenhouse." "Thank you, ma'am, she will be very pleased, but--" "Yes! What?" "There was one other thing, ma'am. Daniel Barnett has been speaking to me about help, and there is one of Admiral Morgan's men wants to leave to better himself. I know the young man well. An excellent gardener, who would thoroughly suit. His character is unexceptionable, and he is an excellent grower of orchids." "Oh!" said Mrs Mostyn sharply; "and you want me to engage him to take poor John Grange's place?" "Yes, ma'am," said the bailiff respectfully. "The Admiral will recommend him strongly, and I don't think you could do better." "Then I do," cried the lady, bringing down one hand so heavily upon the table that the water leaped out of the bowl on to the cloth. "James Ellis," she said, rising, "come with me." The bailiff stared, and followed the rustling silk dress out through the French window, and along the tiled floors of the conservatory, to the angle where it turned suddenly and went along by the drawing-room. There she stopped suddenly, with her eyes looking bright and tearful once more, as she pointed to the far end and whispered-- "Not do better, James Ellis? Man, what do you say to that?" CHAPTER TWELVE. James Ellis did not say anything to "that" for a few moments, but stood rubbing the bridge of his nose with the hard rim of his hat, which he held in his hand. For there, to his utter astonishment, was John Grange, bright-eyed, erect, and with his face lit up with eager pleasure, busily tying up a plant to the sticks from which its strands had strayed. A few pieces of raffia grass were hung round his neck, his sleeves were turned up, and, evidently in utter ignorance of the fact that he was being watched, he bent over the plant upon its shelf, and with deft fingers traced the course of this branch and that, and following all up in turn, tied those which were loose. After cutting the grass as he tied each knot, he examined the plant all over with his fingers till he found one wanton, wild, unnecessary shoot, and passing the knife-blade down to its origin, he was in the act of cutting it off when James Ellis made a gesture to stop him, but was arrested by Mrs Mostyn, who held up her hand and frowned. By that time the shoot was neatly taken off--cut as a gardener can cut, drawing his knife slightly and cleverly across, making one of those wounds in the right place which heal so easily in the young skin. Then Grange's hands played about the plant for a few minutes as he felt whether it was in perfect balance, and pressed it back a little upon the shelf, measuring by a touch whether it was exactly in its place. Directly after he walked across that end of the conservatory without a moment's hesitation, stopped before the opposite stand, and stretched out his hand to place it upon a pot, about whose contents it began to stray, was withdrawn, extended again, and then wandered to the pots on either side; but only to be finally withdrawn, the poor fellow looking puzzled, and Mrs Mostyn smiled, nodded, and placing her lips close to the bailiff's ear, whispered-- "There used to be another of those white pelargoniums standing there." By this time John Grange's hands were busy at a shelf above, and the lookers-on watched with keen interest for the result, for the flower he sought had been moved on to the higher range, and they were both wondering whether he would find it. They were not long kept in suspense, for John Grange's hand touched one of the leaves the next moment, pressed it gently, raised it to his nose, and a look of satisfaction came into the poor fellow's face as, with a smile, he bent over, lifted the pot from its place, stood it on the floor, and went down on one knee to begin examining the plant all over with fingers grown white, soft, and delicate during his illness. Mrs Mostyn kept on glancing brightly at James Ellis, as if she were saying, "Do you see that? Isn't it wonderful?" And the bailiff stared, and kept on rubbing his nose with the hard brim of his felt hat, while he watched John Grange's fingers run up the tender young shoots, and, without injuring a blossom, busy themselves among those where the green aphides had made a nursery, and were clustering thickly, drawing the vital juices from the succulent young stems. And then bringing all his old knowledge to bear, he knelt down on both knees, so that he could nip the pot between them with the plant sloping away from him, and with both hands at liberty, he softly removed the troublesome insects, those which he failed to catch, and which fell from their hold, dropping on to the floor instead of back among the leaves of the plant. Every flower, bud, and shoot was examined by touch before the pot was once more stood upright, the various shoots tried as to whether they were properly tied up to their sticks, and then the young man rose, lifted a plant from the lower shelf, placed it where the pelargonium had stood, and lastly, after raising it from the floor, and smelling its leaves, arranged it in the place on the shelf where he had left it a couple of days before his accident. The next minute he walked to where another was standing, as if led by a wonderful instinct, though it was only the result of years of care, application, and method, for he had worked in that conservatory till he knew the position of every ornamental plant as well as he knew its requirements, how long it would last, take to flower, and with what other kind he would replace it from one end of the year to the other. Mrs Mostyn and her bailiff stood watching John Grange for quite half-an-hour, in what seemed to the latter almost a miraculous performance, and in those hasty minutes they both plainly saw the man's devotion to his work, his love for the plants he cultivated, and how thoroughly he was at home in the house and interested in what had taken place in his enforced absence. He showed them, by his actions, that he knew how much the plumbago had grown on the trellis, how long the shoots were that had been made on the layer, and his fingers ran from one mazy cluster of buds and flowers to another; hard-wooded shrubby stems were examined for scale, which was carefully removed; and every now and then he paused and placed his hands on the exact place to raise up some fragrant plant--lemon verbena or heliotrope--to inhale its sweet odour and replace it with a sigh of satisfaction. James Ellis watched the young gardener, expecting moment by moment, and, in his then frame of mind, almost hoping to see him knock down some pot on to the tiled floor, or stumble over some flower-stand. But he watched in vain, and he thought the while that if John Grange, suffering as he was from that awful infliction, could be so deft and clever there amongst that varied collection of flowers, his work in the other houses among melons, pines, cucumbers, tomatoes, and grapes would soon grow simplicity itself, for, educated as he was by long experience, he would teach himself to thin grapes by touch, train the fruit-bearing stems of the cucumber and melon vines, and remove the unnecessary shoots of the tomatoes with the greatest ease. There would be a hundred things he could do, and each year he would grow more accustomed to working by touch. And as James Ellis thought, he, an old gardener, shut his eyes fast, and, in imagination, saw before him a fresh growing tomato plant, and beginning at the bottom, felt whether it was stiff and healthy. Then ran up his fingers past the few leaves to the first great cluster of large fruit, removed the young shoots which came from the axils of the leaves, and ran up and up the stem feeling the clusters gradually growing smaller till higher up there were fully-developed blossoms, and higher still tufts of buds and tender leaves with their surface covered with metallic golden down. He started from his musing to gaze open-eyed at his mistress, who had touched his arm, and now signed to him to follow her softly back to the library window, and into the room. "Why, James Ellis!" she said petulantly, "were you asleep?" "No, ma'am, I was shutting my eyes to try how it would be amongst the plants." "Ah," she said, with the tears now brimming up into her eyes; "isn't it wonderful? Poor fellow, I cannot tell you how happy it has made me feel. Why, James Ellis, I had been thinking that he had to face a desolate, blank existence, and I was nearly heart-broken about him, and all the time, as you saw, he was going about happy and light-hearted, actually smiling over his work." "Yes, ma'am," said the bailiff rather gruffly, "it seems very wonderful. I don't think he can be quite blind." "What!" "His eyes look as bright as any one else's, ma'am." "You think then that he is an impostor?" "Oh, no, ma'am, I wouldn't say that." "No, James Ellis, you had better not," said his mistress tartly. "Well, you saw what he can do." "Yes, ma'am, and I was very much surprised. I did not know he was here;" and Ellis spoke as if he felt rather aggrieved. "I suppose not," said Mrs Mostyn dryly. "I saw him in old Tummus's garden yesterday, and I walked across and fetched him here this morning to see what he could do in the conservatory, and really, blind as he is, he seems more clever and careful than Daniel Barnett." James Ellis coughed a little, in a dry, nervous way. "And now I repeat my question, what do you say to that?" "Well, ma'am, I--er--that is--" "You want me to engage one of Admiral Morgan's men to take poor John Grange's place?" "Yes, ma'am," said the bailiff, recovering himself; "and I don't think, you can do better." "But I don't want another man." The bailiff shrugged his shoulders, and looked deprecatingly at his mistress. "I know you like the garden and houses to look well, ma'am, and we're two hands short." "No, we are not, James Ellis. Old Dunton has done nothing in the garden but look on for years. I only wished for my poor husband's old servant to end his days in peace; and do you think I am going to supersede that poor fellow whom we have just been watching?" "But, pardon me, ma'am, there are many things he could never do." "Then Barnett must do them, and I shall make a change for poor John Grange's sake: I shall give up showy flowers and grow all kinds that shed perfume. That will do. It is impossible for Grange to be head-gardener, but he will retain his old position, and you may tell Barnett that Grange is to do exactly what he feels is suitable to him. He is not to be interfered with in any way." "Yes, ma'am," said the bailiff respectfully. "If he is so wonderful now, I don't know what he will be in a few months. Now, you understand: John Grange is to continue in his work as if nothing had happened, and--you here?" For at that moment two hands busy tying up some loose strands of a Bougainvillea dropped to their owner's side, and poor John Grange, who had come up to the window unheard, uttered a low cry as he stood with his head bent forward and hands half extended toward the speaker. "Mrs Mostyn--dear mistress," he faltered, "Heaven bless you for those words!" "God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb, John Grange," she said softly, as she laid her hand upon one of those extended toward her as if to reach light in darkness; "should not His servants strive to follow that which they are taught?" The blank, bright eyes gazed wildly toward her, and then the head was bowed down over the hand which was touched by two quivering lips, as reverently as if it had been that of a queen. Five minutes later James Ellis was on his way back to the gardens, thinking it was time that Mary went away from home to begin life as a governess, or as attendant to some invalid dame. CHAPTER THIRTEEN. James Ellis went straight to the gardens, and had no difficulty in finding Daniel Barnett, whose voice he heard sounding loud, though smothered, in the closely-shut orchid-house, where he was abusing one of the under-gardeners. "I don't care--I don't believe it," he cried angrily, as Ellis opened the door slowly; and then came: "Hi! What idiot's that? Don't let all the cold wind in out of the garden. I say that glossum and that cattleya has been moved. Hi! Are you going to shut that door? Oh, it's you, Mr Ellis. I thought it was one of the lads; they will not be careful with those doors." "Send him away," said the bailiff. "You can go," said Barnett shortly, to the man, "and mind, I mean to know who moved those orchids. It was done out of opposition. I changed 'em there, and that's where they're to stand." "Well, I didn't move 'em," growled the man. "Didn't move them, _sir_" cried Barnett; but at that moment the door was closed with a bang. "I shall have to get rid of that fellow, Mr Ellis. He don't like me being promoted, and he has been moving my orchids out o' orkardness. Ha, ha! Not so very bad, that." "He did not move them," said Ellis grimly. "Who did, then?" "John Grange." "John Grange?" "Yes; I dare say he has been here. He has been in the big conservatory ever so long, tying up plants and clearing off dead stuff." "John Grange! What, has he got back his sight?" "No; the mistress fetched him over from old Tummus's cottage, and he has been hard at work ever so long." "But there wasn't no clearing up to do," cried Barnett, flushing angrily. "Wasn't there? Well, he was at it, and you may tell that fellow he won't be wanted, for John Grange is going to stay." Daniel Barnett said something which, fortunately, was inaudible, and need not be recorded; and he turned pale through the harvest brown sun-tan with mortification and jealous rage. "Why, you don't mean to say, Mr Ellis, sir," he cried, "that you've been a party to bringing that poor creature back here to make himself a nuisance and get meddling with my plants?" "No, sir, I do not," said the bailiff sharply; "it's your mistress's work. She has a way of doing what she likes, and you'd better talk to her about that." He turned upon his heel and left the orchid-house, and as soon as he was gone the new head-gardener stood watching him till he was out of hearing, and then, doubling up his fist, he struck out from the shoulder at one of the offending pots standing at a corner--a lovely mauve-tinted cattleya in full blossom--and sent it flying to shivers upon the floor. It was the kind of blow he felt in his rage that he would have liked to direct at John Grange's head, but as in his unreasonable jealous spite it was only a good-sized earthenware pot, the result was very unsatisfactory, for the flower was broken, the pot shattered, and a couple of red spots appeared on Daniel Barnett's knuckles, which began to bleed freely. "That's it, is it?" he muttered. "He's to be kept here like a pet monkey, I suppose. Well, he's not going to interfere with my work, and so I tell him. Don't want no blind beggars about. A silly old fool: that's what she is--a silly old fool; and I should like to tell her so. So he's to come here and do what he likes, is he? Well, we shall see about that. It's indecent, that's what it is. Why can't he act like a man, and take it as he should, not come whining about here like a blind beggar of Bethnal Green? But if he can't see, others can. Perhaps Mr John Grange mayn't stop here very long. Who knows?" Daniel Barnett, for some reason or another, uttered a low-toned, unpleasant laugh, and then began to pick up the pieces of the broken pot, and examine the injured orchid, to see what portions would live; but after a few minutes' inspection he bundled all into a wooden basket, carried it out to the rubbish heap, and called one of the men to sweep up the soil upon the red-tiled floor. CHAPTER FOURTEEN. The days glided by and John Grange's powers developed in a wonderful way. He busied himself about the glass-houses from morning to night, but he did not return to the bothy in the grounds, preferring to go on lodging with old Hannah and her husband. At first the men used to watch him, leaving off their work to talk together when he passed down the garden, and first one and then another stood ready to lend him a helping hand; but this never seemed to be needed, Grange making sure by touching a wall, fence, shrub, or some familiar object whose position he knew, and then walking steadily along with no other help than a stick, and finding his way anywhere about the grounds. "It caps me, lads!" said old Tummus; "but there, I dunno: he allus was one of the clever ones. Look at him now; who'd ever think that he was blind as a mole? Why, he walks as upright as I do." There was a roar of laughter at this. "Well, so he do," cried old Tummus indignantly. "That ain't saying much, old man," said one of the gardeners; "why, you go crawling over the ground like a rip-hook out for a walk." "Ah, never mind," grumbled old Tummus, "perhaps if you'd bent down to your work as I have, you'd be as much warped. Don't you get leaving tools and barrers and garden-rollers all over the place now." "Why not?" "'Cause we, none on us, want to see that poor lad fall over 'em, and break his legs. Eh?" No one did; and from that hour a new form of tidiness was observed in Mrs Mostyn's garden. Daniel Barnett said very little, but quite avoided Grange, who accepted the position, divining as he did the jealous feeling of his new superior, and devoted himself patiently to such tasks as he could perform, but instinctively standing on his guard against him whom he felt to be his enemy. A couple of months had gone by when, one day, Mrs Mostyn came upon Grange in the conservatory, busily watering various plants which a touch had informed him required water. "Do you think it would hurt some of the best orchids to make a good stand full of them here for a couple of days, Grange?" said his mistress. "I have a friend coming down who takes a great deal of interest in these plants." "There is always the risk of giving them a check, ma'am," said Grange quietly; "but if you wouldn't mind the place being kept rather close, and a little fire being started to heat the pipes, they would be quite right." "Oh, do what you think best," said Mrs Mostyn, "and make me a good handsome show by the day after to-morrow. Just there, between these two windows." "If you'll excuse me, ma'am, they would be better on the other side against the house. They would show off better, and be less likely to get a check if a window was opened, as might happen." "Of course, John Grange. Then put them there. I want a good, brilliant show, mind, to please my friend." "They shall be there, ma'am. I'll get a stand cleared at once, ma'am, and put the orchids on to-morrow." By that evening one of the large stands was clear, all but a few flowers to keep it from looking blank, and late on the next afternoon Daniel Barnett encountered old Tummus. "Hullo, where are you going with that long barrow?" "Orchid-house, to fetch pots." "What for?" "Muster Grange wants me to help him make up a stand in the zervyturry." Daniel Barnett walked off muttering-- "I'm nobody, of course. It ain't my garden. Better make him head at once." "Beautiful! Lovely!" cried Mrs Mostyn, as she stood in front of the lovely bank of blossoms; "and capitally arranged, John Grange. Why, it is quite a flower show." That evening the guest arrived to dinner in the person of a great physician, whose sole relaxation was his garden; and directly after breakfast the next morning, full of triumph about the perfection of her orchids, Mrs Mostyn led the way into the conservatory, just as John Grange hurried out at the garden entrance, as if to avoid being seen. "A minute too late," said the doctor, smiling; "but I thought you said that the man who attends to this place was quite blind?" "He is! That is the man, but no one would think it. Now you shall see what a lovely stand of orchids he has arranged by touch. It is really wonderful what a blind man can do." "Yes, it is wonderful, sometimes," replied the visitor. "I have noticed many cases where Nature seems to supply these afflicted people with another sense, and--" "Oh, dear me! Oh, you tiresome, stupid man! My poor flowers! I wouldn't for a hundred pounds have had this happen, and just too when I wanted it all as a surprise for you. That's why he hurried out." "Ah, dear me!" said the great physician, raising his glasses to his eye. "Such lovely specimens, too. Poor fellow! He must have slipped. A sad accident due to his blindness, of course, while watering, I presume." For there, on the red-tiled floor of the conservatory, lay an overturned watering-can, whose contents had formed a muddy puddle, in which were about a dozen broken pots just as they had been knocked down from the stand, the bulbs snapped, beautiful trusses of blossom shivered and crushed, and the whole display ruined by the gap made in its midst. The tears of vexation stood in Mrs Mostyn's eyes, but she turned very calm directly as she walked back into the drawing-room and rang, looking white now with anger and annoyance. "Send John Grange to the conservatory directly," she said to the butler, and then walked back with her guest. Five minutes later John Grange came in from the garden, and the great physician watched him keenly, as the young man's eye looked full of trouble and his face twitched a little as he went towards where he believed his mistress to be. "What is the meaning of this horrible destruction, Grange?" she cried. "I don't know, ma'am," he replied excitedly. "I came in and found the pots all down only a few moments ago." "That will do," she said sternly, and she turned away with her guest. "Even he cannot speak the truth, doctor. Oh, what cowards some men can be!" CHAPTER FIFTEEN. Mrs Mostyn said but little more, though she thought a great deal. John Grange gave her his explanation. He had, he said, been into the conservatory twice that morning; and on the second visit brought the can of water to give the orchids a final freshening, when he felt something crush beneath his feet, and, startled and horrified at finding what was wrong, he had dropped the pot of water and added to the mishap. Mrs Mostyn said, "That will do," rather coldly; and the young man went away crushed, feeling that she did not believe him, and that the morning's business had, in her disappointment, cast him down from his high position. A day or two later he tried to renew the matter, but he received a short "That will do"; and, humbled and disheartened, he went away, feeling that his position at The Hollows would never be the same again. It was talked over at the cottage, where Mary listened in agony. "Pity he did not own to having met with an accident at once," said her father. "Of course it is no more than one expected, it was sure to come some time; but it was a pity he was such a coward and took, refuge in a lie. Just like a child: but, poor fellow, his accident has made him weak." Mary flushed up in her agony and indignation, for it was as if her father had accused her of untruthfulness; but an imploring look from her mother, just as she was going to speak, silenced her, and she suffered to herself till her father had gone, and then indignantly declared that John Grange was incapable of telling a lie. The trouble was discussed too pretty largely at old Hannah's cottage, where Tummus's wife gave it as her opinion that it was "one of they dratted cats." They was always breaking something, and if the truth was known it was "the missus's Prusshun Tom, as she allers called Shah." "I don't want to accuse anybody," said John Grange sadly, as he sat with a piteous look in his blank eyes; "but I'm afraid one of the servants must have stumbled up against the stand, and was then afraid to speak." "Burr-urr!" growled old Tummus, who was devouring his late meal--a meat tea, the solid part consisting of a great hunch of bread and upon it a large piece of cold boiled, streaky, salt pork. "Don't make noises like that at the table, Tummus," said his wife. "What will Mr Grange think of you?" "Only said `Burr-urr!'" grumbled old Tummus. "Well, you shouldn't; and I do wish you would use the proper knife and fork like a Christian, and keep your pork on your plate." "This here's quite sharp enough, missus," said the old man, cutting the piece of pork with the blade of his great pruning-knife, and re-arranging the piece under his perfectly clean but dirty-looking, garden-stained thumb. "But it looks so bad, cutting like that; and how do we know what you used that knife for last." "Well, Muster John Grange can't see, can he?" "No, no, I cannot see, man," said Grange sadly. "Go on in your own way as if I were not here." "Burr-urr!" growled old Tummus again. "Why, what is the matter with the man?" cried his wife. "Have you not meat enough?" "Aye, it's right enow. I was only thinking about them orchards. I know." "Know what?" said his wife. "Who done it. I see him go there and come away." "What?" cried John Grange excitedly, as he turned his eyes towards the old gardener. "I see Muster Dan Barnett come away from the conservatory all in a hurry like, d're'ckly after you'd been there." "You saw Dan Barnett?" "Aye, that's so. I see him: did it out o' spite 'cause the missus didn't give him the job." "Tummus, what are you a-saying of?" cried his wife, as the old man's words made Grange start excitedly from his chair. "Why, if Dan'l Barnett heared as you said that, you'd be turned away at a moment's notice." "I don't keer; it's the solomon truth," said old Tummus, cutting off a cubic piece of pork and lifting it from his bread with the point of his pruning-knife. "It can't be anything of the sort, so hold your tongue. There, there, Mr Grange, my dear. Don't you take any notice of his silly clat. Have another cup of tea: here's quite a beauty left." "You say you saw Daniel Barnett come from the conservatory that morning?" cried Grange excitedly; and there was a wild look of agony in his eyes as he spoke. "Nay, nay, he didn't, my dear," cried old Hannah; "it's all his nonsense. Just see what you've done, Tummus, with your rubbishing stuff." "Aye, but I did see him come out, and I see him go in all of a hurry like," said old Tummus sturdily. "Where were you?" "In the shrubbery, raking up the dead leaves as he told me to the night afore, and forgotten as I was there so near." "And you were busy raking the leaves?" said Grange. "Nay, I warn't; I was a-watching on him, and left off, for I didn't see what he wanted there." "No, no, it's impossible; he would have been so careful," said Grange hurriedly. "Keerful?" cried old Tummus contemptuously: "he did it o' purpose. I know: out o' spite." "Tummus, you're driving us in a coach and four into the workhouse," cried his wife passionately. "Good job too. I don't keer. I say Dan Barnett did it out o' spite, and I'll go straight to the missus and tell her." "No," said John Grange sternly. "Not a word. What you say is impossible. Daniel Barnett does not like me, and he resents my being here, but he could not have been guilty of so cowardly, so contemptible an act." "Burr-urr!" growled old Tummus; "wouldn't he? I know." "Whatever you know," said John Grange sternly, "you must keep to yourself." "What, and let the missus think you done it?" "The truth comes to the surface some time or another," said John Grange very firmly. "I cannot believe this is the truth, but even if it is I forbid you to speak." "Yes; he'd better," put in old Hannah, shaking her head severely at her husband; and the meal was finished in silence. Another month had passed, and John Grange's position remained unchanged. He worked in the houses, and tied up plants by the green walks; but Mrs Mostyn never came round to stand by his side and talk to him regarding her flowers, and ask questions about the raising of fresh choice plants for the garden. In those painful minutes he had fallen very low in her estimation, and was no longer the same in her eyes, only the ordinary gardener whom she kept on out of charity, and whom she would keep on to the end of her days. John Grange felt it bitterly, and longed to get away from a place which caused him intense agony, for, from time to time, he could not help knowing that Daniel Barnett went up to smoke a pipe with James Ellis, and talk about the garden. But the sufferer was helpless. He could not decide what to do if he went away, for there was no talk now of getting him into an asylum; and in spite of all his strong endeavours and determination to be manly and firm, he felt that it would be impossible to go away from The Hollows and leave Mary Ellis. From time to time Barnett saw little things which convinced him that so long as John Grange was near he would have no chance of making any headway with the object of his pursuit, and this made him so morose and bitter that he would often walk up and down one of the shrubberies on dark nights, inveighing against his rival, who still did not accept his position, but hung on in a place where he was not wanted. "The girl's mad about him," he muttered, "absolutely mad, and--" He stopped short, thoroughly startled by the thoughts which came into his mind. It was as if a temptation had been whispered to him, and, looking sharply round in the darkness, he hurried back to the bothy. That night he lay awake tossing about till morning. That very day he had encountered John Grange twice at the end of the long green walk, with its sloping sides and velvet turf, at the top of which slopes were long beds filled with dahlias. These John Grange was busy tying up to their sticks, and, as if unable to keep away, Barnett hung about that walk, and bullied the man at one end who was cutting the grass by hand where the machine could not be used; and at last made the poor fellow so wroth that he threw down his scythe as soon as Barnett had gone, and said he might do it himself. Barnett came to the other end a couple of hundred yards away, and began to find fault with the way in which the dahlias were being tied up. But John Grange bore it all without a word, though his lips quivered a little. This was repeated, and Grange felt that it was the beginning of a course of persecution to drive him away. Barnett went down the long green path till nearly at the end, when the dinner-bell began to ring, and just then he came upon the scythe lying where the man had thrown it in his pet. "Humph!" ejaculated Barnett. "Well, he won't have Mrs Mostyn to take his part. Pretty thing if I can't find fault with those under me." At that moment he turned, and there, a hundred yards away, was John Grange coming along to his dinner, erect, and walking at a fair pace along the green walk, touching the side from time to time with his stick so as to keep in the centre. The idea came like a flash, and Daniel Barnett glanced round. No one appeared to be in sight, and quick as thought it was done. One sharp thrust at the bent handle was sufficient to raise the scythe blade and swing it round across the green path, so that the keen edge rose up and kept in position a few inches above the grass right in John Grange's path as he came steadily on. The next moment Barnett had sprung among the bushes, and was gone. CHAPTER SIXTEEN. The late Albert Smith, in his _Christopher Tadpole_, describes a lady whose weakness was periwinkles. Old Hannah likewise had a weakness, but it was not for that unpleasant-looking curly mollusc which has to be wriggled out with a pin, but, as she expressed it, "a big mellow Williams pear with a maddick in it." Old Hannah's "maddick" was, of course, a maggot in north-country language, but it was not that she had a liking for the larva of a fly, but for the fruit in which that maggot lived for as a gardener's wife she knew well enough that very often those were the finest pears, the first to ripen, that they fell off the tree and were useless for the purpose of dessert, and were often left to rot. So that, knowing well his wife's weakness, old Tummus would pick up a fallen pear when he saw it under the tree in September, show it to old Dunton, who would nod his head, and the destination of that pear would be Tummus's pocket. Now there was a fine old pyramid pear-tree not far from the green walk, and while hoeing away at the weeds that morning, where the rich soil made them disposed to grow rampant, old Tummus came upon "the very moral" of the pear his old woman would like. It was big, mellow, and streaked with vermilion and patched with gold; and had evidently lain there two nights, for its fragrant odour had attracted a slug, which had carved a couple of round cells in the side, close to where the round black hole betrayed where the maggot lived, and sundry other marks showed that it was still at hand. Tummus picked up that pear and laid it in the green cup formed by a young broccoli plant, went on with his hoeing till the bell rang, and was half-way to the gate, stick and lunch-basket in hand, when he remembered the pear, and hurried back--that is to say, he walked back-- not quite so slowly as usual, for Tummus never ran. A man that came from "his parts" remembered that the old man had been known to run once, at some cottagers' festival, but that was ages before, and ever since he had walked very deliberately. Anyhow, he found the pear, and was returning to cut across the green path, when he caught sight of Daniel Barnett, and stopped short. "I forgetted as poor old Dunton's dead," he thought, "He'll turn nasty if I ask him about the pear; and what's he a-doing of?" Old Tummus peered through a great row of scarlet-runners and stared at his superior, and saw him bend over something on the green path, and then dart in among the bushes and disappear. "Now what is he doing of?" old Tummus muttered. "Not a-going to--Why here comes poor Master Grange. Well, he couldn't have seen him. Not a-setting o' no more traps, is he?" Old Tummus watched for a moment or two, and then walked right across the borders to reach the green path, breathless, just before John Grange came up, and shouted loudly-- "Ware well!" It was just in time, for in another instant the blind man's ankle would have struck severely against the keen scythe edge, which by accident or malignant design was so placed that its cut would have proved most dangerous, that is to say, in a slightly diagonal position--that is, it would have produced what is known to swordsmen as a draw-cut. But the poor fellow escaped, for, at the first warning of danger he stopped short, erect in his place, with his nostrils widening and face turned towards the speaker. "Well?" he cried. "Impossible! I am three parts of the way along the green path." "Aye, that's so, Muster Grange," said old Tummus, carefully removing the scythe, and placing it in safety by hooking the blade high up in a dense yew-tree. "No well here, but I thought it best any way to stop you." "To stop me? Why?" cried Grange. "'Cause some one as ought to be kicked out o' the place left his scythe lying across the grass ready for you to chop your shins. It's all right now." They walked on in silence till they reached a gate opening upon the green meadow, where John Grange stopped short with his hand resting upon the upper bar. "What is it, my lad?" said old Tummus. "I was only thinking of how helpless I am. I thank you, Tummus," he said simply, as he turned and held out his hand. "I might have cut myself terribly." "Aye, you might, my lad. There, go on to your dinner, and tell the missus I shall be there directly." John Grange wrung the old man's hand, and went on in perfect ignorance of the trap that had been laid, with the idea that if he were injured and had to go to a hospital once again, it was not likely that he would return to the gardens; while old Tummus went off to the tool-shed, a quiet, retired nook, suitable for a good think, to cogitate as to what he should do under the circumstances. His first thought was to go straight to Mrs Mostyn, and tell her what he had seen, and also about the orchids, but he argued directly that his mistress would not believe him. "For I didn't see him upset the orchards, and as to this here business," he thought, "nobody wouldn't believe as a human being would go and do such a thing. Dunno as I would mysen if I hadn't seen it, and I arn't quite sure now as he meant to do it, though it looks as much like it as ever it could. He's got his knife into poor John Grange, somehow, and I don't see why, for the poor fellow arn't likely to do much harm to anybody now." Then he considered for a bit as to whether he should tell John Grange what he had seen; but he concluded that he would not, for it would only make the poor fellow miserable if he believed him. Old Tummus was still considering as to the best course when the two o'clock bell rang, and he jumped up to go back to his work. "Never mind," he thought, with a grin, "I dessay there'll be a few cold taters left, and I must have them with my tea." That same evening, after old Tummus had finished a meal which more than made up for his abstemiously plain dinner, he made up his mind to tell John Grange out in the garden. "For," said he to himself, "I mayn't be there next time there's a scythe across the path, and who knows but what some day it may be the well in real airnest; Dan Barnett may leave the lid off, or uncover the soft-water tank, and the poor chap be drowned 'fore he knows it." But when he went out he found his lodger looking so happy and contented, tying up the loose shoots of the monthly rose which ran over the cottage, that he held his tongue. "It arn't my business," he argued, and he went off to meet an old crony or two in the village. "Don't let any one run away with the house while I'm gone, Mr John," said old Hannah, a few minutes later. "I'm going down to the shop, and I shan't be very long." Grange nodded pleasantly, and went on with his work. That night Mary Ellis sat at her open window, sad and thoughtful, inhaling the cool, soft breeze which came through the trees, laden with woodland scents. The south-eastern sky was faintly aglow, lit up by the heralds of the rising moon, and save the barking of a dog up at the kennels, all was still. She was thinking very deeply of her position, and of Daniel Barnett's manner towards her the last time they met. It was plain enough that her father favoured the head-gardener's visits, and in her misery her thoughts turned to John Grange, the tears falling softly the while. All at once she started away from the window, for, plainly heard, a low, deep sigh came from the dark shadow of the trees across the road. Daniel Barnett? John Grange? There so late? Who could it be? Her heart said John Grange, for the wish was father to the thought. But she heard nothing more for a few minutes, and then in a whisper, hardly above the breath, the words-- "Good-bye--for ever, perhaps--good-bye!" Then came the hurrying sound of steps on the dewy grass at the side of the road, and the speaker was gone, leaving Mary leaning out of the window, excited and trembling violently, while her heart beat in the stillness of the night as if it were the echo of the hurried pace rapidly dying away. "It could not be--it could not be," she sighed at last, as she left the window to prepare for bed. "And yet he loves me so dearly. But why should he say that?" She stopped in the middle of the room, and the words seemed to repeat themselves-- "Good-bye--for ever, perhaps--good-bye!" The tears fell fast as she felt that it was so like John Grange in his manly, honourable way of treating their positions. "He feels it all so terribly that it would be like tying me down--that it would be terrible for me--because he is blind." She wiped her eyes, and a bright smile played about her lips, for there, self-pictured, was a happy future for them both, and she saw herself lightening the great trouble of John Grange's life, and smoothing his onward course. There was their happy home with her husband seeing with her eyes, guided always by her hand, and looking proud, manly, and strong once more as she had known him of old. "It will only draw us closer together," she said softly; "and father will never refuse when he once feels it's for my happiness and for poor John's good." But the smile died out as black clouds once more rose to blot out the pleasant picture she had formed in her mind; and as the mists gathered the tears fell once more, hot, briny tears which seemed to scald her eyes as she sank upon her knees by the bedside and buried her face in her hands. That night Mary Ellis's couch remained unpressed, and the rising sun shone in at the window upon her glossy hair where she crouched down beside her bed. It was a movement in the adjoining room which roused her from the heavy stupor into which she had fallen, for it could hardly be called a natural sleep, and she started up to look round as if feeling guilty of some lapse of duty. For a few minutes she suffered from a strange feeling of confusion accompanied by depression. Then by degrees the incidents of the past night came clearly to her mind, and she recalled how she had sunk down by her bed to pray for help and patience, and that the terrible affliction might be lightened for him she loved, and then all had become blank. A few minutes before Mary's face had looked wan and pale, now it was suffused by a warm glow that was not that of the ruddy early morning sun. For the hope had risen strongly in her breast that, in spite of all, the terrible affliction would be lightened, and by her. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. Four days elapsed, and Mrs Ellis noticed a change in her child. Mary had been more than usually attentive to her father, and James Ellis had noticed and looked pleased. "'Tis going off, mother," he said one evening. "Of course it hit very hard at the time, poor little lass, for she felt very fond of him, I suppose; but I always said to myself that time would heal the sore place, and, bless her, it is doing it. You've noticed how much brighter she seems?" "Yes, I've noticed," said Mrs Ellis, nodding her head as she prepared the supper. "She was actually singing gently to herself this morning over her work, just as she used to, and you don't know, James dear, what a lot of good it did me." "Oh, yes, I do--oh, yes, I do," said the bailiff, nodding his head. "Of course it would, mother." "Yes, dear, it did, for it has been cruel work for me to see her going about the house in that heart-breaking way." "Humph! Of course, and for me too." "No, James, you're at home so little. You have your meals and sit with me of an evening, and at such times there's something going on to make the poor dear busy. But as soon as you're out of sight it has been dreadful again. I've seen a deal more of her poor heart-breaking than you have, and there have been times when--" "Heart-breaking! Stuff and nonsense!" cried James Ellis petulantly. "Ah, you don't know," said his wife, shaking her head at him sadly. "Don't know what, you silly woman? There, that sounds like heart-breaking, doesn't it?" For at that moment, plainly heard, came the sound of Mary's voice singing the old English song, "Robin Adair"; and as the notes reached his ear, James Ellis smiled, held his head on one side, swayed it to the melody, and began softly to hum over the plaintive tune. "_Rob_--_in_--_er_--_her_--_dair_," sang James Ellis. "Well done, little lassie! Talk about a voice, mother, why it's as sweet as a bird's." "Yes, dear, but I wish she wouldn't sing such sad things--it puts me in mind of the robins in the autumn time." "I wish you wouldn't be so melancholy, mother. You're enough to put a whole regiment of soldiers out of spirits, let alone a poor girl. Here, hold your tongue now. Here she comes." Footsteps were heard upon the stairs, and the foot was more springy than it had been of late, as Mary entered the room. "Ready for supper, father dear?" said Mary, going behind his chair, placing her arms about his neck, and drawing his head back so that she could lay her cheek against his forehead. "Ready, my pet? Of course I am;" and "_Rob_--_in_--_er_--_her_--_dair_," he sang. "That's the way. I'm glad to hear you tune up a bit. It's like the birds in spring corn: and mother wants it, for of all the melancholy old women that ever lived, she's about the worst." _Click_! "Hallo! Who's that at the gate? Just look, dear." Mary went to the window, but there was no need, for she knew the step; and as her mother glanced at her, she saw the girl's face harden as she said-- "Mr Barnett, father." "Humph! What does he want to-night?" muttered Ellis. "Let him in, my dear; and, Mary, my girl, don't run away out of the room." Mary was silent, and a tapping came at the door, evidently administered by the head of a stick. "Evening, Miss Mary," said the visitor briskly. "Nice growing weather. Father at home?" "Yes, I'm at home. Want me, Daniel Barnett?" "Well, yes, Mr Ellis, sir, there's a little bit o' business I want to see you about. I ought to have asked you this morning and down at the gardens, but somehow I've always got such a lot of things on my mind there that a lot of 'em slip out again." "Come in then, come in then," said Ellis. "Not if it's disturbing you, sir," protested the visitor. "Say the word, and I'll go and come up another evening. I don't mind a walk, Miss Mary," he added, in a confidential way. "Business, business, Daniel Barnett! And there's nothing like getting it over," said Ellis, as, after a good deal of preliminary shoe-rubbing, Barnett stepped to the door of the sitting-room, and then stopped short in a very apologetic way. "Why, you're just going to supper. I'd best come up to-morrow night." James Ellis felt in the best of humours, and he smiled. "Well," he said, "if you come to-morrow evening, I suppose I shall have some supper then. Sit down, man, and out with it." "Oh, thank you, Mr Ellis, and with many apologies to you, Mrs Ellis, ma'am, and to you too, Miss Mary." "Why, hallo! Daniel Barnett. Been to the bookseller's lately?" "Eh? No, sir, I haven't been to the town for a fortnight past," said Barnett wonderingly. "Oh," said the bailiff, with a knowing look at his wife and daughter; "I thought perhaps you'd bought and been studying up _Etiquette for Gentlemen_." "No, no, sir! Ha, ha, ha! That's a good one, Mr Ellis. Oh, no, sir, I'm only a rough one, and what I know of etiquetty came up natural like--like--" "Mushrooms?" "That's a good one too!" cried Barnett, with forced gaiety. "He's having his little joke at me, Miss Mary." "There, never mind them," said the bailiff, "let's have the business and get it over. What is it?" "Of course, sir. It won't take long." "Shall we go in the kitchen, James?" said Mrs Ellis. "Eh, ma'am?" cried the young man eagerly. "Oh, no, pray don't let me drive you away, it's only garden business." "They're not going," said Ellis, half jocularly. "Now then, what is it, my lad?" "Well, it's about the gravel paths, Mr Ellis," said the young man, leaning forward, after wiping his damp forehead, and speaking confidentially. "I'm getting a bit anxious about them." "Glad to hear it, my lad. I was always proud o' my paths in the old days." "And so am I, sir. If the gravel paths in a garden's kept right there isn't so very much the matter." "Humph! Well, I don't go so far as that, Daniel Barnett, but paths go a long way. So you're ashamed of their being so weedy, eh?" "Weedy, sir," said the young man, flushing. "Why those paths--Oh, I see! Ha ha! He's chaffing me again, Miss Mary." Mary did not even smile, and the visitor looked uncomfortable, his own face growing serious again directly. "It's a long time since they've been regravelled, Mr Ellis, sir, and as I could spare a bit of time, I thought, if you were not much pressed up at the farm, you might let me have a hundred loads of gravel carted from the pit." "Take a lot of time and very hard work for the horses," said the bailiff, pursing up his lips. "Yes, sir, I calculated all that, but it would be a wonderful improvement to my paths, and they'd pay for doing." "I don't want to spare the carts, Daniel Barnett; but I agree with you it would be a great improvement, and I want Mrs Mostyn to feel that you are doing justice to the place, so I suppose I must say yes." "Thank you, sir, thank you," cried Barnett, for he could feel the strength of the encouragement, and knew how much it meant. "There," he continued, rising very slowly and glancing at mother and daughter as he spoke, "I'll start two men picking up the big path, and I s'pose you'll be sending down the gravel almost any time." "They shall begin soon and get it over." "Thank you, sir; then I'll say good-night now. Good-night, Mrs Ellis. Good-night, Miss Mary." "What, won't you stop and have a bit of supper with us, Daniel?" said the bailiff. Wouldn't he! And "Daniel" too! He dropped down into his chair muttering something about its being very kind, and that he thought he wouldn't mind a morsel, but he looked in vain for a welcoming smile from Mary, who, without a word, slowly left the room, and returned as silently as she went, but with fresh knives and forks, and a couple more plates. "But she didn't put 'em next to hers," thought Daniel Barnett, most unreasonably, for there was the whole opposite side of the table at liberty, and she laid a place for him there. It was of course what he had been looking for. He had come expecting to be asked to stay, and as soon as they were all seated he told himself that it was all right, and he stared hard at the gentle face across the table and started various topics of conversation, directed at Mary, her father good-humouredly helping him with a word now and then, while Mrs Ellis looked on and attended to the wants of her guest. "Yes, she's coming round at last," thought Daniel Barnett; for, whenever she was addressed, Mary replied in a quiet, gentle way, and once entered into the conversation with some word of animation, making the bailiff look across the table at his wife, and give her a nod, as much as to say-- "Now then, who's broken-hearted now?" But Mrs Ellis only tightened her lips and said to herself-- "Yes, it's all very well; but fathers don't understand their girls like mothers do. Women know how to read women and men don't, and never will--that's my humble opinion about that--and I wish Daniel Barnett would go--" Daniel Barnett was a clever fellow, but like many sharp men he could be too much so sometimes. Metaphorically, he was one of those men who disdained the use of stirrups for mounting a horse, and liked to vault into the saddle, which he could do with ease and grace, but sometimes he would, in his efforts to show off, over-leap himself--vaulting ambition fashion--and come down heavily on the other side. He performed that feat on the present occasion at supper, for, in his blundering way, now that circumstances had occurred which made him feel pretty safe, he thought it would be good form to show Mary what a fine, magnanimous side there was in his character, and how, far from looking upon John Grange as a possible rival, he treated him as a poor, unfortunate being, for whom he could feel nothing but pity. "Rather strange business, wasn't it, about poor Grange, Mr Ellis, eh?" Mary started. Mrs Ellis thrust her hand beneath the table-cloth to give her daughter's dress a twitch, and Ellis frowned and uttered a kind of grunt, which might have meant anything. Any one else would have known by the silence that he had touched dangerous ground. Daniel Barnett felt that it was an opportunity for him to speak. "I am very sorry for the poor fellow," he said; "it seems so sad, but it is no more than I expected." Mary turned white and cold. "You don't know where he has gone, Mr Ellis?" "No," said the bailiff shortly. "No; I thought you said so. Poor chap! I did everything I could to make matters easy for him, and selected little jobs that I thought he could do; but, of course, he would not take to them happily. He felt it hard to have to take his orders from me, and very naturally, for he expected to be head-gardener, and would have been, eh, Mr Ellis?" "Yes," grunted the bailiff. "To be sure he would. I'm not such a donkey as to suppose I should have got the place if he had been all right. I'm a good gardener, though I say it as shouldn't say it, Miss Mary; but there were lots of little dodges about flowers where he could beat me hollow. Ha, ha, ha!" he laughed, "I wouldn't say that before the men, but I don't mind here." "Is Mr Grange bad again?" asked Mrs Ellis, unable to restrain her curiosity. "Bad, ma'am? Well, of course he's bad; but no worse than usual. You know, I suppose, that he's gone away?" "I? No." "Oh, yes, quite mysterious like; never said good-bye to a soul." "But me," thought Mary, with a sensation as of something clutching her heart, as she recalled that night at her bedroom window. "Yes, poor fellow, he's gone," said Ellis, who felt that it was time to speak. "Of course I know why," said Barnett, "it was too much for him. He was fretting his heart out, poor chap, and he no doubt thought it was the best he could do--get right away you know, where he wasn't known, and where everything he saw--I mean everything he touched--didn't remind him of the old place. It's all very sad, and it used to make me feel uncomfortable, and keep away for fear of making him think of my superseding him; but there, we're all like plants and flowers, Miss Mary, and suffer from our blights and east winds." He looked across at Mary, whose face was stony, and her eyes fixed upon him so strangely that he felt abashed, and turned to Mrs Ellis. "Sad business, ma'am, from the beginning," he said; "but, as the saying is, we don't know, and perhaps it's all for the best." Mrs Ellis sighed, the supper was at an end; and to the great relief of all, Barnett rose, and in a tone of voice which suggested that every one had been pressing him very hard to stay longer, he cried-- "Well, really, I must go now." Mrs Ellis said meekly, "Must you, Mr Barnett?" and held out her hand promptly. He shook hands with her quite affectionately, and then turned to Mary, who let him take her hand more than gave it, and he sighed as he said "Good-night." "You'll think about the gravel, Mr Ellis?" he said to his host. "I want that garden to look better than any one in the county." "Yes, you shall have it, Barnett, first time I can spare the horses at the farm. And I'll go down to the gate with you." They walked not only to the gate, but a couple of hundred yards towards the gardens before either spoke, and then just as Barnett was congratulating himself upon how well he had got on at the cottage that night, Ellis turned to him sharply. "I told Mrs Mostyn about John Grange having gone away so suddenly." "Did you, sir? What did she say?" "That she didn't want to hear his name mentioned again, for she had been disappointed in the man." "Poor chap!" said Barnett sadly. "Yes, poor chap!" said Ellis hastily. "For Heaven's sake don't ever hint at such a thing at home, Daniel, but I've a horrible thought of something being wrong about that poor fellow. You don't think that, quite out of heart and in despair like, he has gone and done anything rash, do you?" "Well, Mr Ellis, I didn't like to hint at such a thing to any one, but as you do think like that, and as old Tummus and his wife seem to be quite suspicious like, it did set me thinking, and I've felt sometimes that he must have walked two miles the other night to the river, and then gone in." "By accident?" said Ellis quietly, "in his blindness." "Ah!" said Barnett solemnly, "that's more than I can tell." "Or must tell," said Ellis excitedly. "It mustn't even be breathed, Dan Barnett. If my Mary even heard it whispered, she'd go melancholy mad." CHAPTER EIGHTEEN. "Nay, sir, I don't know any more about it, and I arn't a-going to say nowt about it, but if that there poor bairn--" "What poor bairn?" said James Ellis angrily, as he stood in the keeping-room of old Tummus's cottage. "I was asking you about John Grange." "Well, I know you were. Arn't he quite a bairn to me?" "Please don't be cross with him, Mr Ellis, sir," said old Hannah respectfully; "it's only his way, sir." "Very well, let him go on," cried James Ellis testily. "Just you keep your spoon out o' the broth, mother," grumbled old Tummus, "I know what I'm about." "Well, what was it you were going to say?" asked the bailiff. "I were going to say as I wouldn't say nowt about it, and I won't, but that poor lad has either been made away wi--" "Tut, tut, nonsense!" "Well, then, he's made away wi' himself," cried old Tummus, bringing his hand down upon the table with a heavy bang. The bailiff, who had not removed his hat before now, took it off, showing a heavy dew upon his forehead, which he wiped away as he looked uneasily from one to the other. "What--what makes you say that, Tummus?" murmured Ellis, who did not seem to be himself at all. "Now, Tummus, do mind what you're saying," said old Hannah, in a lachrymose tone of voice. "Well, I am, arn't I? What I say is this: Warn't it likely?" "Likely?" "Aye, likely. Here's the poor lad loses his sight all at once just when he's getting on and going to be head-gardener and marry my pretty bairn." "Nothing of the sort, sir," cried the bailiff warmly. "You're too fond of settling other people's business." "Yes, Mr Ellis, sir, that's what I tell him," said old Hannah anxiously. "Tchah!" growled old Tummus, giving his body a jerk. "Very well then, sir, he thowt he were, and it got on his mind like that he were all in the darkness, and it's my belief as he couldn't bear it, and went and made a hole in the water so as to be out of his misery." "Oh, Tummus, you shouldn't!" "No, no; he was not the man to do such a thing," said Ellis, whose voice sounded husky, and who looked limp and not himself. "I dunno," growled Tummus; "they say when a man's in love and can't get matters settled, he's ready to do owt. I never weer in love, so I doan't know for sure." "Oh, Tummus!" cried old Hannah reproachfully. "Will ta howd thee tongue?" cried the old man. "No, I won't, Tummus. Not even with Mr Ellis here, if you stand there telling such wicked stories." "Arn't a story," cried the old man, with the twinkle of a grim smile at the corners of his lips. "Who'd ever go and fall in love with an ugly owd woman like thou?" "It couldn't be that; no, no, it couldn't be that," said the bailiff hastily. "Wheer is he then, sir?" said old Tummus firmly. "Gone away for a bit--perhaps to London." "Nay, not he," said old Tummus, shaking his head, "I'm sewer o' that." "Why, how do you know?" "Would a smart young man like John Grange was ha' gone up to London without takking a clean shirt wi' him?" "What!" "Didn't take no clean shirt nor stoggins nor nowt." "Are you sure of that?" said the bailiff. "I couldn't make out that anything was gone out of his room, sir," said old Hannah, clapping her apron to her eyes. "Poor dear: it's very, very sad." "Aye, it's sad enough," said old Tummus; "not as it matters much, what's the good o' going on living?" "Tummus!" cried his wife. "Well, what are yow shoutin' at? I say it again: What's the good o' livin'? You on'y get horrid owd, and your missus allus naggin' you at home, and your Dan Barnetts shoutin' at you in the garden, or else Master Ellis here giving it to you about something." "You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Tummus," said his wife. "To go and say such a thing to Mr Ellis's face, as has allus been a kind friend to you." "Aye, lass, I don't grumble much at he, but we'm do grow precious owd." "And a great blessing too, Tummus," cried his wife. "You don't hear Mr Ellis complain about getting old." "Nay, but then he's got a pretty bairn, bless her!--as sweet and good a lass as ever stepped; and I says that to Master Ellis's face, same as I've often said it behind his back. Bless her! There!" James Ellis, with the great care upon his breast--the haunting thought that perhaps, after all, he had had something to do with John Grange's disappearance--now stood in old Tummus's cottage a different being. There was none of the rather pompous, important manner that he was in the habit of putting on when addressing his inferiors. The faces of John Grange and Mary seemed to rise before him reproachfully, and, for the first time in his life, he stood before the old couple in the cottage a humbled man, hardly conscious of what was being said. "Then he took nothing away with him, Hannah?" he said at last. "No, sir, nothing that I can make out." "Nowt!" said old Tummus. "Here he were, hevving his tea that night, looking that down sad, that a bad tater was nowt to him; next thing is as we hears him go out o' the door--that there door just behind wheer you're a-standing, Mr Ellis, sir, and he didn't come back." "Didn't come back," said the bailiff, repeating the old man's words. "We didn't set up for him because we know'd he'd shut oop all right, and if he didn't nobody wouldn't come and steal our plate, 'cause the owd woman allus taks it to bed wi' her." "Tummus!" "Well, so you do; six silver teaspoons, on'y one was lost years ago, and the sugar bows, sir, she allus wrops 'em up in an owd pocky ankychy." "There is no water near," said James Ellis, as if to himself, but old Tummus's ears were sharp enough. "There's the river." "Two miles away, Tummus." "What's two miles to a man who wants to drownd hissen! Why, if I wanted to mak' a hole in the watter I'd walk twenty." "Tummus, I will not have you say such dreadful things." "It's very, very sad, Hannah," said James Ellis at last; "and I'm more upset about it than I can say, for he was a fine, worthy young fellow, and as good a gardener as ever stepped." "That he was," murmured the old couple. "But we don't know that anything so terrible has happened. Some day perhaps we shall be hearing news of him." "Nay, you never hear news o' them as has gone before, Master Ellis, sir. If I were you, I'd have the pond dragged up at the farm, and watter dreened off at Jagley's mill." "No, no," cried the bailiff hastily. "There is no reason for suspecting such a thing. John Grange was not the man to go and do anything rash. There, I thought I'd come and have a few words with you, Hannah, and you too, Tummus. I want you' to hold your tongues, now, and to let this sad business die a natural death. You understand?" "Oh yes, sir." "Chatter grows into bad news sometimes. There, good-evening. I dare say you'll hear news about the poor fellow some day." "Nay, we wean't," said old Tummus, when the bailiff was gone. "John Grange is as dead as a door-nail, and owd Jemmy Ellis knows it too; but he's scarred of his bairn hearing, and don't want the missus up at the house to think on it." "But we don't know that he is dead," said old Hannah. "Not for sewer," growled old Tummus, beginning to take off his heavy boots; "and we arn't sewer of a many things. But then, owd Jimmy's as good as master here, and if you go flying in his face you may just as well fly over the garden wall same time. I've done, missus. I don't say who done it, but it's my belief John Grange was put out o' the way." "Oh, don't, Tummus; you give me the creeps." "All right, all right, I've done. It's a rum world, and everything goes wrong in it." "Not quite everything, dear." "Well, no, not quite everything, but nearly. I believe it's because it was made round. Lookye here, missus: how can matters go right on a thing as has got no sound bottom to stand on? If the world had been made square it would have stood square, and things would have come right; but there it is all round and never keeping steady, and allus changing. Why, if you get a fine day you never can count upon another." "No," sighed Hannah; "but there's a deal of good in the world, after all." "Eh? What?" cried old Tummus, jumping up and standing upon the patchwork hearthrug in his stockings, "wheerabouts?--wheer is it, owd woman? I'm a-going to look for it 'fore I gets a day owder." "Sit down, and don't talk such stuff, Tummus," cried the old woman, giving him a push which sent him back in his chair. "I won't have it." "Ah! That's it," he said, with a low, chuckling laugh; "it's because the world's round. If it had been square we should all have stood solid, and old women wouldn't ha' flown at their mesters and knocked 'em down." CHAPTER NINETEEN. Old Tummus and his wife both declared that they minded what the bailiff said, and never let a word escape from them about the old man's suspicions; but rumour is a sad spreader of news, and the result of some bit of tittle-tattle turns up in places least expected, doing incalculable harm. It was not likely that John Grange's disappearance would die out of ordinary conversation without being pretty well embroidered by people's imagination, and like the Three Black Crows of the old story, being added to until the origin looked very trifling and small. But all the same, it was some time before people's doubts reached Mrs Mostyn's ears through her housekeeper, and she turned upon her old confidential servant with a look of horror. "Oh, my good woman!" she cried, "don't tell me that: it can't be true." The housekeeper shook her head. "I hope not, ma'am; but it has grown to be common talk." "Why, if it really were so, I could never live happily in the old place again. Go away, and send some one to fetch James Ellis here, directly." The bailiff came in due course; and as soon as he entered the drawing-room, where his mistress's face plainly showed that something was very wrong, she saluted him with-- "What's all this I hear about that poor young man?" "Well, ma'am, I--" "Ah, no hesitation, James Ellis. I want the precise facts. Is it true that he made away with himself?" "That nobody can say, ma'am," said James Ellis firmly. "There has been some tattle of that kind." "And you think that he did?" "I try not to, ma'am," said the bailiff, "for everybody's sake. It would be terrible." Mrs Mostyn was silent. "Thank you, Ellis," she said, after a few minutes of awful silence; "it would indeed be terrible. But ought some search to be made? Is it my duty to have representations made to the police?" "I think not now, ma'am. I did not like to give any encouragement to the rumour, for, after all, it is only a rumour." "But where there's smoke there's fire, James Ellis." "Yes, ma'am," said the bailiff sagely; "but people often see what they think is smoke, and it turns out to be only a vapour which dies away in the sunshine." "Yes, yes," said Mrs Mostyn thoughtfully. "I have gone into the matter a good deal, ma'am, I hope, as an honest man." "I am sure of that, James Ellis," said his mistress. "And for two reasons I have tried to think I was right in taking no steps about what may, after all, be all a fancy at which we have jumped." "And what were the reasons, James Ellis?" "One was, ma'am, that I knew it would be a great pain and trouble to my employer." Mrs Mostyn bent her head. "And the other?" "Well, ma'am, to speak plainly, there was a little bit of leaning on the part of my Mary towards poor John Grange, and there's no doubt he was very fond of her." "Ah! This is news to me. And you and Mrs Ellis?" "These things come about, ma'am, without fathers and mothers having anything to do with them till too late." "Yes, yes," said Mrs Mostyn thoughtfully. "But when John Grange's bad accident happened, of course I had to put down my foot firmly, and say it could not be." "It seems very hard, James Ellis," sighed his mistress; "but I suppose it was right." Then she added quickly: "You are afraid of the poor girl hearing such a rumour?" "More than that, ma'am," said the bailiff huskily; "I'm afraid it would kill her, or send her melancholy mad." Mrs Mostyn heaved a deep sigh, and remained silent. "Do you think it was my duty to have spoken to the police, ma'am, and told them I suspected the poor fellow made an end of himself?" "James Ellis," said Mrs Mostyn gravely, "you are Mary's father, and love your child." "She is my one great comfort in life, ma'am." "Yes; and I am a weak woman, full of sympathy for one of my sex. I will not trust myself to judge in one way or the other. Let the matter rest for a time, and let us see what that brings forth." "Yes," said James Ellis, as he went back home; "let us see what time brings forth." Time brought the rumour sooner than James Ellis suspected, for while he was having his interview with Mrs Mostyn, the story had floated to the cottage, where Mary heard it whispered to her mother than John Grange had wandered away from his lodgings one night, and, either by accident from his blindness, or in despair on account of his affliction, he had walked into the river, or some pool, and been drowned; for though plenty of inquiries had been made, he had not since been seen. "Good-bye--good-bye for ever." Those words she had heard that night as she sat at the window: his farewell to her; and it seemed to come home to her like a stroke of lightning, that in his despair he had rashly sought the end. She said nothing. There was no wild cry of horror: only a sudden motion of her hands towards her bosom, where she held them pressed; and they saw her face turn of a deathly white, even to her lips, as the blood flew to her heart. Then she uttered a low sigh and sank down in a chair, where she was still seated, gazing vacantly before her into the future, when her father returned and flew to her side. He looked at his wife without speaking, but his eyes said plainly, "You have heard?" and Mrs Ellis bowed her head. "Mary, my darling," the old man whispered, as he caught her to his heart. And at this she uttered a faint cry, and hid her poor white face upon her hands. "We can do nothing, mother," whispered Ellis. "Let her rest. Time is the only cure for this. I tried to hide it, but I knew it must come at last, and it has come." "Good-bye--good-bye for ever," murmured Mary, almost in a whisper; and her words sent a chill through both their breasts. CHAPTER TWENTY. From that hour they saw the poor girl droop and begin to fade like some flower stricken by blight. No murmur escaped her lips, and John Grange's name was never mentioned. But it was noted at home that she appeared to be more gently affectionate to those about her, and anxious to please her father, while many a time poor Mrs Ellis told her husband that she was sure "our Mary" was slowly sinking into the grave. "Wait a bit, wife--wait a bit," he would reply testily. "It's quite natural. You'll see it will pass off, and she'll forget." "Never, James." "Well, then, it will become softened down as time goes on; she's gentler towards Daniel Barnett, too, now. There: it will all come right in the end." Mrs Ellis sighed and shook her head, but all the same she thought that after all her husband might prove to be correct. "For James is a very wise man," she argued, "and one can't go on mourning for ever, however much one may have loved." Daniel Barnett placed his own interpretation on Mary's manner towards him, and there were times when he was exulted, and felt how successfully he had climbed up the ladder of life. Head-gardener at Mrs Mostyn's by eight-and-twenty; James Ellis's prospective son-in-law; and in the future he would be bailiff and agent, when Ellis was removed by infirmity or death; and in the latter case he and Mary, the only child, would inherit the nice little bit of money the old man had saved, and the six cottages which he had bought from time to time. Very pleasant all this, joined to the success in the gardens, where Mrs Mostyn had begun to show him more favour, and had several times expressed great satisfaction at the state of her garden. But Daniel Barnett was not happy. He was perfectly sure that Mary would some day yield to his and her mother's wishes, and become his wife; but even that knowledge did not clear away the black cloud which overhung his life. For, sleeping or waking, he could not get rid of the feeling that John Grange's remains would some day be discovered, and conscience troubled him with the idea that he was more or less to blame for the poor fellow's untimely end. It was in vain that he indignantly protested to himself that it was not likely a man should risk his life if he could help it. That he was not bound to climb that tree, and that he did quite right to take care of himself, and so escape what might have been his fate. "I might have fallen, and turned blind, or might have been killed," he would often say to himself. "It was a bit of luck for me--ill-luck for him, poor chap. He went, and there's an end of it." But there was not "an end of it," for Daniel Barnett's life was made a misery to him by the thoughts of how Grange had suffered, and how he had treated him, till in despair-- "Yes; that's it," Tummus would whisper to him; "he went and walked into the river, or--" Daniel Barnett shivered and avoided the big well in the garden, and stubbornly refused to have the two great underground rain-water tanks cleaned out in the dry time for fear of some revelation being made. In his own mind he grew more and more sure that John Grange had taken his life, but he said nothing, and though affectionately amiable to his friends up at the cottage, he daily grew more morose to those beneath him in the gardens, and made their lives as great a burden as his own was to him. Troubles of this kind go on for a long time before they reach the employer's ears. James Ellis heard that there were complaints of Barnett's tyrannical treatment, and threats on the part of the men to leave; but he saw that the garden was admirably kept and sided with the head, refusing to listen to the murmurs which grew deep now instead of loud. The months had glided by, and it was autumn once more, with the fruit ripening fast in the garden, and, save to Mary Ellis, the sad episode of John Grange's career had grown fainter and fainter in the memories of those who had known him. Barnett had long ceased to wait for invitations, and quite three times a week used to go up to the cottage and stay late, while at the house he was often joked and questioned as to when it was coming off, whereupon he would smile and look knowing, while all the time there was a bitter gnawing at his heart, for he knew that he was no nearer winning Mary than he was the year before when John Grange disappeared. Then came a sharp little encounter, one bright September day in the garden, where, after his wont, old Tummus had been to what he called "torment them there weeds," to wit, chopping and tearing them up with his hoe, and leaving them to shrink and die. The _Bon Chretiens_ were particularly fine that year, and one which had become worm-eaten, and had in consequence prematurely ripened, showing all the bright tints of its kind, had fallen and lay ready to rot, when, hoeing away, old Tummus saw it, smiled to himself as he thought how it would please old Hannah, picked it up and laid it aside ready to take up to the bothy when he put on his coat at dinner-time. "I shall have to ask him for it," muttered the old man, "or else there'll be a row." Just at that moment, as luck had it, Mrs Mostyn came along, with scissors and basket, to cut a few dahlias, and, in obedience to a sudden thought, old Tummus raised the fruit by the stalk and stepped toward his mistress, offering her the pear. "Strange nyste pear, mum," he said. "And ripe so soon. There, lay it in the basket. Ah! Tut, tut! It's all worm-eaten; take it away, and give it to somebody who will not mind." Mrs Mostyn went on, and old Tummus chuckled, and hid the pear just as Daniel Barnett caught sight of him, and having marked the spot, waited till the old man had gone away. He then searched for, found the pear, and leaving it untouched, quietly watched at dinner-time, saw old Tummus secure the treasure, pocket it, and he was going off when Barnett accosted him with-- "What have you got there?" "Pear," said the old man stubbornly, as Barnett tried to snatch it from his pocket. "Now I know where the fruit goes. Why, you thieving old scoundrel. I'll soon put an end to this." "Scoundrel yourself!" cried the old man fiercely. "Smart a man as you are, Dan Barnett. I never set myself to steal another man's love and harassed him till he went and drowned hisself, if you didn't go behind and throw him into the tank you won't have cleaned." "Why, you lying old villain!" roared Barnett. "Lying, eh?" retorted old Tummus; "it's a lie then that you shoved they orchards off the shelf, I s'pose, and made believe it was poor John Grange. A lie, perhaps, as you laid the scythe for the poor blind man to walk on and cut hisself." "Yes, a lie," cried Barnett, turning white. "Then you tell it, for I see you do it, I did, and saved him from crippling hisself for life. But we've had enough o' this. I goes straight to Missus Mostyn and tells her all I know." "Mrs Mostyn is here, sir," said a sharp, stern voice, "and has heard all you have said." CHAPTER TWENTY ONE. In the scene which followed, when the two men saw their mistress standing before them, that lady acted the part of judge. "I told the old man he might take the pear," she said to Daniel Barnett sternly. "But you, sir," she cried, turning upon old Tummus, "how dare you make such horrible charges against my gardener?" "Begging your pardon, my lady, Mrs Mostyn," said old Tummus, "I'm as much your gardener as Dan Barnett, mum. What I says I sticks to. He was allus agin' poor John Grange, and if he arn't made an end on him, what I says is this here--wheer is he?" Mrs Mostyn for answer pointed to the gate. "Go," she said quietly, "you do not know what you are saying. When you are ready to apologise to Mr Barnett for what you have said, come to me. Till then you had better stay away from the grounds." Old Tummus raised the mellow pear, which he still held in his pocket, dashed it with all his might upon the ground, and then stumped away with head erect. Mrs Mostyn stood watching the old man for a few moments, and then turned to Barnett. "You were nearly as much in fault as he," she said sternly. "I do not approve of my servants, even if they are in fault, being addressed in such a tone." Mrs Mostyn walked away, and Daniel Barnett abstained from visiting at the cottage that night. A week later old Tummus was reinstated without apologising to the head-gardener, after old Hannah had been up to the house and begged him on. "No, ma'am," she said, through her tears; "he hasn't 'pologised, and he says he can't, because it's all true." "Then it is sheer obstinacy, Hannah," said Mrs Mostyn. "Yes, mum, that's just what it is. Many's the time his mother's told me that he was the obstintest boy that ever lived, and well I know it. Once he's said a thing, wild horses couldn't make him alter it. And you see he's seventy-five now, ma'am, and been sixty-three years in these gardens. He's been growing obstin't' all this time, and I'm afraid you can't change him now. Please, please, let him come back to work, mum; you'll kill him if you don't." "There, go away with you, you stupid woman, and tell him I'm very very angry with him for a careless, obstinate, wicked old man, and I don't forgive him a bit; but he may come back to work, and you can ask the housekeeper to give you half-a-pound of tea as you go." Old Hannah went away, sobbing aloud, and so overcome that, in spite of the hot water which bedewed her cheeks, she forgot all about the tea. CHAPTER TWENTY TWO. Another six months had passed, and it was spring again, with its bright promises of renewing life and sunshine, when, one evening, Mrs Ellis sat holding her child's hand, the tears stealing slowly down her cheeks as she talked in a low voice, stifling a sob from time to time, and in every way showing how bad an ambassadress she was, and how thoroughly her sympathies were with her child. "Did father tell you to say this, mother?" said Mary wearily. "Yes, my darling. He says he is getting older, and that it is the one wish of his heart to see you happy." "But he would not see me happy, mother, if I said Yes," replied Mary. "I cannot, indeed, I cannot love Daniel Barnett. I could never make him a good wife. Why will he persecute me so?" "Because he loves you, dear; and don't, pray don't be hasty! You don't know: the love may come, dear." "Yes, mother; the love may come, but will it?" "See how good and patient he has been; and father says it is his sole care to see you settled, and to know that if anything happens to him you have a strong right hand to protect you. Come, darling, let me go down and tell them both that you have thought better of it, and that you consent." "Mother, you do not wish it," said Mary gently. "All this does not come from the heart." "I think it does, my darling," said Mrs Ellis. "You see, it is my duty to do what your father wishes. Yours to love and obey him." "No, mother dear," said Mary gently. "Your voice contradicts it all. This does not come from your heart. You do not wish to see me Daniel Barnett's wife." Mrs Ellis's face went down on her child's breast, and she let her tears have their course for a few minutes, but raised her head again with a sigh. "I oughtn't to have done that," she said hurriedly. "Mary, my darling, your father desires it, and it is, indeed it is, your duty to try and meet his wishes. What am I to go down and say?" "Go and tell him that I cannot forget the past, mother, and tell Mr Barnett to wait. In a few months I will try to think, as you all wish me, if--if I live." "Oh, my darling, my darling," sobbed the mother. "Don't cry, dear," said Mary calmly. "I can't help feeling like that sometimes, it is when I think that he must be dead, and then hope comes, and--mother," she whispered, "do you believe in dreams?" "My darling, no," said Mrs Ellis, "only that they are the result of thinking too much during the day of some particular thing. But I must go down to them now, dear. Father will be so impatient. He was angry last time Daniel came here, because you would keep up-stairs." "Daniel!" said Mary sadly. "Mother, are you beginning to side against me too?" Mary Ellis had hardly asked these words when the sound of voices below made her spring to her feet, run to the door, and stand there listening. "Mary, my child, what is it?" cried Mrs Ellis. For answer Mary ran down into the little parlour. "John!" she cried wildly, and the next moment she was clinging to John Grange's neck, while he stood there with one arm about her, holding her tightly to him, and proudly facing her father and Barnett, who stood scowling and trying hard to speak. CHAPTER TWENTY THREE. In the dead silence which fell upon all in the bailiff's room when Mary Ellis flung herself upon John Grange's neck, a looker-on might have counted sixty beats of the pendulum which swung to and fro in the old oak-cased "grandfather's clock," before another word was uttered. Mrs Ellis stood with her face working, as if premonitory to bursting out into a fit of sobbing; James Ellis felt something rising in his throat, and looked on with a grim kind of jealous pleasure at the lovers' embrace; and Barnett broke the silence by making a strange grinding noise with his teeth. "Do you--are you going to allow this?" he panted out at last. James Ellis made a deprecating gesture with his hands, and looked uneasily at his wife, who had crossed to Grange, laid her hands upon his shoulder, and said gently-- "And we thought you were dead--we thought you were dead." "As I should have been, Mrs Ellis, to you all," cried the young man proudly, "if I could not have come back to you like this." By this time Barnett had fully recovered the speech of which jealous rage and disappointment had nearly deprived him, and after a savage scowl at Grange, he turned upon the bailiff. "Look here, Mr Ellis, is this your house? Are you master here?" Ellis made an angry gesture now. "My good sir," he cried; "you see: what can I do?" "Order this fellow--this beggar--this impostor out. He has no business here." Mary turned upon him fiercely, but her angry look faded out, and gave place to a smile of content, as she now linked her hands together about Grange's strong right arm and looked gently in his face, as if to say, "Don't be angry, he hardly knows what he says." Maddened more by this, Barnett stepped forward to separate them, but, roused now in turn, James Ellis stepped between. "Yes," he said firmly; "this is my house, and I am master here, Daniel Barnett. No violence, if you please." "As much violence as is necessary to turn this fellow out," roared the young man. "I claim your promise, my rights. Mary, you are by your father's words my affianced wife; keep away from that man. Mrs Ellis, stand aside, or I will not be answerable for the consequences. You coward!" he cried to Grange; "you screen yourself between two women. Now then, out with you!" One moment John Grange had been standing there calm and happy, with the women clinging to him; the next, by a quick movement, strong yet gentle, he had shaken himself free; and as Barnett seized him by the throat to eject him from the room, he was perfectly transformed. For, with almost superhuman strength, he seized his rival in return, quickly bore him back a step or two, and then wrenched his legs from beneath him, bringing him to his knees. "It is you who are the coward," he cried in a deep voice, "or you would not have forced on this before two helpless women. Mr Ellis, I claim Mary by the ties of our old and faithful love. I, John Grange, thanks to God, strong, hale, keen of sight again as once I was, a man who can and will protect her while I live. Now, sir, open that door. If there is to be a struggle between us two, it will not take place here." "John!" That one word in a tone of appeal from Mary, and he dropped his hands. "Yes," he said, with the calm assurance of a man who valued his strength; "you are right, dear, Daniel Barnett was half mad. That will do, sir. It is Mary's wish that you should go, and Mr Ellis will not refuse me a hearing when his child's happiness is at stake." Barnett rose slowly, looking from one to the other, and finally his eyes rested upon Ellis, who nodded gravely. "Yes," he said, "you'd better go, Daniel Barnett. I should not be doing my duty to my child if I fought against her now." He walked slowly to the door, opened it, and without another word Barnett followed him out. Five minutes later the latch of the gate was heard to click, and as all stood listening, James Ellis came in and uttered a sigh of relief. There was that in his face which made Mary, with her eyes bright and a flush upon her cheeks such as had not been seen there for a year, run to him and fling her arms about his neck, as she went into a wild fit of joyful hysterical sobbing, which it was long before she could control. There was not much to tell, but it was to the following effect. It dated from the evening when he had been left busying himself in the garden of old Tummus's cottage, left entirely to himself, trimming up the roses, and thinking sadly that there was no future for him in the world. This had been going on for some time, and he was busily feeling the prickly rose strands, and taking nails and shreds from his pocket to tack the wild, blossoming shoots neatly in their places, in perfect ignorance, after a while, that he was being watched. For, though he heard hoofs upon the hard green turf beside the road, he supposed the sounds to be made by some horse returning to its stables from its pasture on the common, and did not imagine that it was mounted, as he heard it stop, and begin cropping the young shoots upon the garden hedge. "Good-evening," said a decisive voice suddenly, speaking as if it was a good evening, and he who spoke would like to hear any one contradict him. "Good-evening, sir," replied John Grange, adding the "sir," for the voice seemed familiar, and he knew the speaker was riding. "You remember me, eh?" There was a slight twitching about the muscles of John Grange's forehead as he craned his neck towards the speaker, and then he seemed to draw back, as he said sadly-- "No, sir; I seem to remember your voice, but I am blind." "Quite blind?" "Yes, sir." "Look in my direction--hard, and now tell me: can you not make out my face, even faintly?" "I can see that there is light, sir, where you are; but you have your back to the west. It is the warm sunset." "Then you are not quite blind, my lad. Well, has Mrs Mostyn forgiven you about her orchids?" "Ah! I remember you now, sir," cried Grange. "You are the friend--the great doctor--who came to see them." "To be sure I am the doctor--I don't know about great--who stayed the night--Doctor Renton, of the Gables, Dale-by-Lyndon." "Yes, sir, I know. I have heard tell of your beautiful garden." "Indeed? Well, look here, my man. Your mistress interested me in your case, and I thought I would ride over some evening and see you. I should like you to come to me, so that I could examine your eyes, and test them a little." John Grange turned ghastly and fell a-trembling, as he grasped at the window-sill to steady himself. "Come, come, that will not do," cried the doctor quickly. "Be a man! You are weak and nervous. Try and control your feelings." "But--then--oh, for Heaven's sake, speak, sir," said Grange, in a husky whisper. "You think there is hope?" "I do not say that, my man, but since Mrs Mostyn told me about your case, I have thought of it a great deal. Come over and see me, saying nothing to any one, for fear of disappointment. Then, if I think it is worth while, you shall come up to London and stay." "It is too much to bear," groaned the sufferer. "No: and you will bear it. But you must expect nothing. I shall in all probability fail, but if I do, you will be no worse off than you are now." "No, sir, I could be no worse off," faltered Grange. "That is the way to take it. Then you will come? But I must warn you: it may mean your being away for a year--perhaps for two." "I would do anything to get back my sight." "Then you will come? I will not communicate with Mrs Mostyn, for fear of raising false hopes. If I succeed she will forgive your sudden leaving. She is a good mistress, my lad. Pity you did not speak out the truth that day." John Grange flushed up. "Indeed it was the truth, sir," he cried angrily. "There, there! No excitement. You will have to lead now a calm, unemotional life if I am to do you good. Good-evening. I shall expect to see you to-morrow morning, then, before I leave for town. But once more, keep your own counsel, and hope for nothing; then all that comes will be so much gain." He drew up the rein, touched his horse's side, and went off at a canter, leaving Grange standing in the cottage garden, one moment with his mind illumined by hope, the next black with despair. "No," he cried softly; "it is too late. He can do nothing. Only that long, dark journey before me to the end. Tell no one! Lead no one to expect that I may be cured! No, not a word to any. Better away from here to be forgotten, for everything about me grows too hard to bear." That night he stole away in the darkness, to pause on the opposite side of the road, to whisper to the winds good-bye, and feel for a few brief minutes that he was near Mary before he said "Good-bye--for ever!" To be dead to all he knew unless he could return to them as he had been of old. This was John Grange's story--condensed--as he told it to the group at the cottage. Then in a low, deep tone, full of emotion-- "If I was to end my days sightless, Mary, I knew I could not come to you again; but Heaven has willed it otherwise. It has been a long, long waiting, hopeless till within the last month, and it was only within the past few days that the doctor told me that all was safe, and I might be at rest." "But you might have written, John, if only once," said Mrs Ellis, with a sob in her throat. "Yes," he said, "I might, but I believe what I did was right, Mrs Ellis; forgive me, all of you, if I was wrong." What followed? Mrs Mostyn was eager to see John Grange back in his old position, but he gravely shook his head. "No," he said, "Mary, I am not going to trample on a man who is down. Let Dan Barnett keep the place; the doctor offers me one that will make us a happy home; and it will be, will it not?" Mary glanced at her mother before replying, and James Ellis clasped the young man's hand, while Mrs Ellis rushed out to have what she called a good hearty cry. "Lor', missus," said old Tummus, "I never worried much about it. There's a deal of trouble in this here life, but a lot o' joy as well: things generally comes right in the end." "Not always, dear." "Eh? Well, never mind, this one has; and I only wish I was a bit younger, so that I could go and be under Muster John Grange.--No, I couldn't. I can go and see 'em once in a way, but I must stop here, in this old garden, with the missus, until we die." "Yes, Tummus, yes," said old Hannah. "It wouldn't do at our time o' life to make a change." "Only that last big one, old lady, to go and work in the Master's vineyard, if He sees as we've done right. But there, dear, on'y to think o' all this here trouble coming from sawing off a bit o' ragged wood." THE END. 
22170	----	CALIFORNIA STATE LIBRARY FIVE LECTURES ON BLINDNESS By KATE M. FOLEY Home Teacher of the Blind California State Library CALIFORNIA STATE PRINTING OFFICE SACRAMENTO 1919 Copyright 1919 By the California State Library. CONTENTS PHOTOGRAPH 4 FOREWORD 5 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF BLINDNESS 6 THE BLIND CHILD AND ITS DEVELOPMENT 14 THE RE-EDUCATION OF THE BLIND ADULT 23 THE ATTITUDE OF THE PUBLIC TOWARD THE BLIND 32 PREVENTION OF BLINDNESS AND CONSERVATION OF VISION IN ADULTS AND CHILDREN 40 * * * * * [Illustration: Miss Foley teaching a class of men at the Industrial Home for the Adult Blind, Oakland, California.] * * * * * FOREWORD. The following lectures were written primarily to be delivered at the summer sessions of the University of California, at Berkeley and at Los Angeles, in the summer of 1918. We are printing them, however, so that the information in them can be more widely distributed, since they are the outgrowth of almost a quarter of a century spent in work for the blind, and were written from the standpoint of a blind person, seeking to better the condition of the blind. They were addressed not to the blind, but to the seeing public, for the benefit that will accrue to the blind from a better understanding of their problems. The successful work of Miss Foley as a student in the California School for the Blind, as a volunteer teacher, and in recent years as home teacher for the California State Library, makes these lectures particularly important and authoritative. MILTON J. FERGUSON, State Librarian. THE PSYCHOLOGY OF BLINDNESS. In view of the widespread interest now manifested in the blind and their problems--an interest deepened by reports from the warring countries--I feel that a knowledge of the psychology of blindness should prove of great help to those wishing to take part in the re-education of the war-blinded soldiers. As early as 1773, Diderot wrote an essay on the psychology of blindness, and, as this essay was written at the very beginning of blind education, it is interesting to note that his ideas coincide with the most advanced deductions on the subject today. However, as these deductions are not very numerous, and as the available literature is very scant, I shall be obliged to draw largely from my own experience and that of other blind persons, in presenting the subject to you. First, let us consider the subject from the point of view of one who has been blind from early infancy, whose fingers are his eyes, and whose mental vision enables him to see many things not revealed by physical sight. A blind man once said, when asked if he would not be glad to have his eyesight, "to improve the organs I have, would be as good as to give me that which is wanting in me." This sentence sums up the whole aim of blind education. Dr. Eichholtz, a noted educator of the blind, says: "Education of the blind absolutely fails in its object, in so far as it fails to develop the remaining faculties to compensate for the want of sight." "Touch and sight must be developed by means which practically in all respects are dissimilar. A blind man discerns the sensation from the real presence of an object at his fingers' end, only by the force or weakness of that very sensation." So, then, let us consider that, to the blind, fingers are eyes, and remember that they have ten instead of two. As I have been blind since early infancy, my own case offers an illustration in point, so I hope you will not misunderstand the predominance of the personal note in these observations. Blindness does not lead to any refinement of the senses of touch, hearing or smell, but to a greater keenness in the interpretation of the information furnished by these senses. Diderot says, "the help which our senses reciprocally afford to each other, hinders their improvement," and so the person in possession of all the senses regards the blind man as a marvel of intelligence and skill, just because, on losing his eyesight, his remaining senses come to the rescue, and he continues to live and move and have his being without the most precious of all physical senses. In the world of the blind child eyesight plays no part, and so the other senses are made to do double duty, and the extent to which these may be cultivated is limited only by the mentality of the child, its early training and environment. I think hearing is the first sense to be cultivated, both in the infant and the adult suddenly deprived of eyesight. Through its ears, the child recognizes voices, detects different footfalls, is enabled to measure distance with a fair degree of accuracy, and can form a very clear idea as to the shape and dimensions of a room. All this information is conveyed to the normal child through the eyes. Dr. Illingworth, a noted educator of the blind in England, says: "Of course, there is no doubt that blindness tends to a higher and more perfect development of the sense of hearing, even in the uneducated, on the same principle that Nature almost always comes to the aid of her children in providing protective agencies of one kind or another, even in the very lowest organisms, and, naturally, for those who are blind, the sense of hearing is the first to fall back upon for this purpose. Thus it becomes more highly developed, because there is more frequent call upon, and exercise of, that sense." Another writer has said, "but a distinction should be made between sensitiveness and an ability to use the sense, between native sensory capacity of the sense organ, and the acquired ability to use that capacity." The second sense to be developed in the blind child is that of touch, and this development begins at a very early date, supplementing the sense of hearing. Long before the child is old enough to read, its fingers have become its eyes, and each of the ten fingers carries its quota of information to the active brain, the amount and quality of this information increasing with the mental development. In addition to the fingers, the nerves of the face and those of the feet contribute their share of information. The child learns to detect differences in climatic condition by the feel of the air on its face. I have often heard very young blind children exclaim, "It feels like rain! It feels like a nice day! The air feels heavy! The wind feels soft! The wind is rough today!" The nerves of the feet contribute their share of helpful knowledge, calling attention to differences in the ground often unnoticed by the eye, telling whether the path is smooth or rough, grass-grown or rock-strewn. The auditory and pedal nerves are mutually helpful, the ear recording and classifying the sounds made by the feet, often guiding them aright by recalling certain peculiarities of sound--whether the ground is hollow, whether the sidewalk is of board or cement, and whether there is a depression here or a raised place there. I often wonder how deaf-blind people walk as well as they do, when they can not hear their footfalls. I find walking much more difficult when on a crowded thoroughfare, or when passing a planing mill or boiler factory. The last of the trio of senses whose development compensates in large measure for the want of eyesight, is that of smell. Through this sense, the child comes very close to the heart of Nature. Of course, the ear is charmed by the song of birds, the hum of insects, the murmur of wind in the trees, or the sound of mighty waters. Through the finger-tips, he learns the shape and size of each flower and shrub and tree, traces the delicate pattern of ferns, notes wonderful rock formations, and finds the first blade of tender grass coaxed to the surface by the warmth of the Spring sunshine. But all this does not bring him the keen pleasure he experiences when he inhales the fragrance of the rose, the perfume of flowers with the dew still upon them, the smell of the freshly turned earth, the newly cut grass, or the blossom laden trees. In the case of Helen Keller, the olfactory nerves have been cultivated to a very high degree, and through this sense she is often able to recognize her friends. A little blind boy once told me that each member of his family had a distinct odor, by which he could tell things worn by them, or books they had handled. Laura Bridgeman is said to have selected the laundry of the pupils in her school by this unusual process. I frequently astonish my friends by telling them when I pass a drug store or hospital, a grocery, a confectioner's, or drygoods store, a paint shop, a florist's stand, or a livery stable. I do not think the blind have a keener sense of taste than any other class of people, although this claim is often made, even by the blind themselves. We have, then, the senses of hearing, touch and smell, each playing its part in the development of the blind child, and each playing it so well that the lack of eyesight is not keenly felt in early childhood. Not until it is old enough to understand the thoughtless remarks of well-meaning people, to catch the pitying tone, to feel the compassionate touch, does it realize that this lack of eyesight is to prove an almost insurmountable barrier to its future success. I was in my sixth year before I understood the meaning of the word "blind." Up to that time, I had romped and played with other children, climbed trees, jumped ditches, accepting bumps and bruises as part of the game, and having no sense of fear, since some child always held my hand. In fact, in those days, all the children held each other's hands, and it was easier going, so. Is it not a pity that, in later life, we feel so self-reliant we are unwilling to admit that the way could often be made easier if we resorted to the childish game of holding hands, and moved forward together as we faced the more serious struggles of life. My first realization of the meaning of blindness came when, one day, after hearing some people call me "poor child," and expressing their sympathy to my mother, I asked if we were very poor, poorer than my playmates, and why I could not go to school. My mother explained that we were no poorer than the others, that the ladies did not mean it in that way, but were sorry that I could not see and did not think I could ever go to school. But my mother assured me that I was going to school, and that there I would learn to see with my fingers, better than the ladies did with their eyes. My childish mind was aroused then, and I asked every one what it meant to see, and soon realized that I did not know what "seeing" really was, at least, not in the sense the other children used the word. I was filled with wonder, since my world had hitherto seemed so complete--I heard things, or felt things, or smelled things, and was satisfied--and yet there was another medium of knowledge entirely unknown to me, and until then unnecessary. How eagerly I looked forward to the time when I should learn to see and my heart was filled with childish rapture on the day when I entered the school for the blind at Berkeley. My first question, on meeting the Superintendent, was, "are you going to teach me to see?" How well he performed this task, how wisely he guided my childish feet, how carefully he developed my eager mind, stimulated my ambition, and renewed my faltering courage, I did not realize until I was called upon to face life, with its trials and opportunities. And here, where his work is so well known, I wish to pay my tribute of love and gratitude to Dr. Warring Wilkinson. He was my great-hearted, great-souled teacher, father and friend. When I found myself in a place with children some of whom were, like myself, blind from infancy, and others whose eyesight had been lost through various accidents, and yet others who could see to go about, to tell the color of our ribbons, and advise us of the approach of a matron or teacher my wonder grew apace. This process of learning to see was varied and absorbing, but I soon found that it had its limitations, and that, after all, eyes were very useful possessions, and without them I could know nothing of color, could not picture the sky, or any of the heavenly bodies; nor could I distinguish different people, unless I heard their voices or steps, though no two had faces alike. I found, too, that some children who could see colors, could not recognize faces, and I came to realize that vision, however slight, was greatly to be desired. I could distinguish light from darkness, and this enabled me to locate doors and windows; but color, with its varying shades, was then, and is now, a mystery profound. But in my desire to see, to be just like other children, I resolved to learn all I could about color, and so I memorized the list of colors, which ones harmonized, which were most pleasing to the eye, which were bright, which produced a sombre impression. Thus I soon learned to speak of color with a degree of intelligence, and to select my gowns with a view to pleasing the eyes of my friends. I soon learned to associate certain phrases with certain colors--for instance, blue as the sky, green as grass, yellow as gold, black as night, red as fire, and brown as a berry. I also learned that a color had a variety of shades, and that at times colors were changeable, it being difficult to distinguish blue from green at night. The sky, with its starred phenomena, was even harder to conceive, and I could not understand how clouds obscured the sun, or how old Sol could put the blackest clouds to rout. My ears and fingers continued to flood my mind with knowledge, and the want of eyesight did not distress me. When I touched an object, or listened to a lesson, my mind stored it away for future reference, and often now, when recalling some facts in history or geography, I can hear the voice of the teacher who read the particular passage. I was eight years old when I first examined a horse, although I was familiar with the sound of its feet on the pavement, and knew whether it walked, trotted or galloped. The horse I examined had been driven a long distance, and so was very warm; when my hand was placed upon its mane, the hair was damp and clung to the back, and there was an odor of steaming flesh. A fly was tormenting the animal, and, as it tossed its head impatiently, I could hear the rattle of harness, and the sound of its restive foot upon the ground. These impressions have always remained with me. My knowledge of the horse was acquired through the senses of hearing, touch and smell. And so with the cow. I can hear its low "moo, moo," hear the milk dropping into the pail, feel the hard outer shell of the horns, and catch the odor that is ever present in the cow's domain. The cat and dog have their peculiarities, too--the mewing of the cat, and the sounds heard when it purrs while washing its face--the dog's quick bark, and the sound it makes when panting for breath, as it rests after a long chase. I know the animals have different colors, peculiar to them, but this knowledge has no place in my mental conception of them. In judging people, the voice is my infallible guide. I am instantly attracted or repelled by a voice, and my estimate of character is rarely incorrect. By the voice I am able to form a very accurate idea as to height, weight and age, so here again I do not feel the lack of eyesight. The voice is an unfailing index to character, and the trained ear is quick to catch the slightest variation in tone, and can detect traits and moods hidden from the eye, because not registered upon the face. There is a strong voice, a brave voice, a voice full of hope and cheer; a tired voice, a crafty voice, a voice full of dull despair. And so here again I do not feel the lack of eyesight in noting differences in my fellow men. I know that there are distinguishing marks, that heads are shaped differently, and that hair and eyes have different colors, corresponding to the various types, as blondes or brunettes. All this I know abstractly, but it is just one of the bits of information tucked away in memory's storehouse. I do not suppose many of you have ever heard a smile. I have. I hear a smile almost before the lips can register it, and to me the sound is as musical as the laughter of a very young child. I think hearing a smile must be like seeing the light in the eyes, and so lack of eyesight is no deprivation in this connection. All during my days at school, I went on acquiring knowledge, learning to see many things, scarcely realizing the handicap of blindness, because every help was given me, and I was surrounded by those whose condition was like my own. But when I went out into the world, I found that many seeing people, so called, had very little vision, although their eyesight was perfect. I found, too, that, although I knew many things, and was well equipped to earn my own living, my lack of eyesight was responsible for a corresponding lack of confidence upon the part of the public. This was a great disappointment, for I knew I could succeed, if only some one would give me the opportunity. After waiting twenty years, the State Library gave me the opportunity. This lack of confidence upon the part of the public is one of the most depressing features of adult blindness. Thus far, I have considered the subject from the point of view of one who has been blind from early infancy, but now I shall view it from the standpoint of one deprived of eyesight in adult life, who is taking his first step in the dark. M. Diderot says: "The help which the senses reciprocally afford to each other hinders their improvement," and so the adult whose movements are no longer directed by his eyes, feels utterly helpless and bewildered, as one who finds himself on a strange road, very late at night, with no ray of light to guide him. As the blinded soldier is uppermost in our thought today, I am considering the mental condition of an adult suddenly deprived of eyesight, not that of the man whose blindness has come on gradually. The first sensation when thus plunged into total darkness is that of unreality, and, just as the light of day dispels the gloom of night, so the sufferer clings to the hope that any minute he may open his eyes, and find things as they were before the darkness settled down, with all its weird shadows, to fill his soul with dread. The continued darkness causes a feeling of depression and repression, very hard to combat, and so the sufferer is in need of "first aid"--in need of a friendly hand and a cheery voice to help him through these trying days. Of this period, M. Brieux, Director of Re-education of the Blinded Soldiers in Paris, says: "The blind are, for the time being, put back into the helpless condition of children. They have to be sustained and given a new education for life. They have to begin many things all over again. Spiritually, they have lost their bearings, and are drifting about in restless anguish. Physically, their whole organism has been shaken by the wound they have received, and must have time after such a violent shock to recover its equilibrium. Their power of judgment has often been temporarily destroyed. They are weak in body and uncertain in mind. This double weakness lays on those who surround them a double duty. Much will have been done when their material welfare has been assured, but the responsibility will not have been discharged unless they have also attained to tranquility of soul and a sense of their own dignity. One must have confidence, in order to give them confidence. Most of us have no idea what powers to meet new demands are inherent in our organs. We have within us capacities unknown even to ourselves, inactive, so long as they are not necessary, awake and efficient, as soon as there is need of them. They are reserves which most of the time we never call on. They are a hoard which we do not touch. Our resources and our power of life are greater than we imagine. The sudden loss of sight gives, after a time, something like the lash of a whip to the whole organism. All the other senses are roused to greater sharpness. When the blind soldier fully realizes this, he will perhaps arrive at a state in which I have seen some men blind from birth, the state of being proud of being blind. Why should they not be proud, when they feel that they are as capable of accomplishing certain things, of practicing certain trades as other men? If, with their lessened powers, lacking the power that we consider of supreme importance, they can do things as well as we, are they not, therefore, cleverer than we? Instead of talking to them of resignation, incite them to revolt at the limitations of their condition. Inspire them to conquer circumstances. Insist that they can. Picture life to them, its beauty and its power, and tell them that it is good." In administering to the needs of this readjustment period, the volunteer should be an optimist, and should exercise common sense in guiding the adult over the first lap of the unfamiliar road. I have advised the volunteers who are now in France, and those preparing to go there, to take writing boards, games, bright, pithy stories, and a lot of nonsense verse. I have told these Red Cross workers that they themselves must know how to laugh, must be able to rise above the horrors about them, for they are there to serve heroes, not cowards, heroes who will laugh with a sob in their throats; heroes who, after a short respite, will reach for a new sword with which to resume the battle of life. God grant we may have the new swords ready for them--swords of hope, swords of confidence, swords from which all the old prejudice and misconception have been removed--swords of occupation and independence! Of this readjustment period, Clarence Hawkes, the well-known blind naturalist who lost his eyesight at the age of fifteen, says: "the loss of eyesight seems, for a time, to upset the perfect working of the nervous system. The nerves have to adjust themselves to new conditions, and rearrange the channels of communication. On first losing one's eyesight, one is impressed with the fact that all noises sound much too loud, and it takes several months for sounds to get toned down to their normal volume, and one never quite overcomes the tendency to jump at sudden sharp noises." As to the blind child the senses of touch, hearing and smell prove efficient carriers of knowledge, so these senses come to the rescue of the blind adult, and compensate, in large measure, for the loss of eyesight. Training does not increase the sensitiveness of a sense organ. It merely puts this capacity to better use. So the blind adult does not suddenly come into possession of wonderful powers, but, in time, his "acquired sense perception" enables him to do many things hitherto considered impossible of accomplishment. But to the casual observer, anything done without eyesight is considered little short of marvelous. The adult soon learns to recognize voices and footsteps, to measure distance with a fair degree of accuracy, and, in many cases, to go about alone, with only the friendly cane for company. Many of the blind have what is defined as a "sense of obstacles," and it is sometimes called a sixth sense. Dr. Illingworth defines this sense as "an exceedingly subtle kind of instinct that enables a blind individual to detect the presence or proximity of a person or object under circumstances of absolute silence, and very often to know the nature of the object." Dr. Illingworth believes that this remarkable power is of electric origin and latent in everybody. This power seems to have its seat in the nerves of the face, and is possessed by the blind adult as well as the blind child. This sense of obstacles, this "touch at a distance," enables a person to tell when he is passing tall buildings, fences, trees, and many other obstructions. Mr. Hawkes says: "The sixth sense, if such it be, probably depends upon three conditions--sound, the compression of the air, and whether the face be free to use its sensitive feelers. This subject is still in its infancy, and time may reveal many interesting facts concerning it; but for our purpose it is enough that the blind have a sense of obstacles, and let us regard it as another proof that we are wonderfully made and divinely led." In a surprisingly short time, the blind adult becomes accustomed to the new conditions, the various organs perform their new functions, and he finds life in sightless land to be, in many respects, very like life in that world of light and color, now only a memory. But a very living memory--enabling him to recall the faces of his friends, the glow of sunset, or the rosy light of dawn with the eye of the mind whose vision is keener, clearer than mere physical sight. This ability to call up mental pictures is yet another of the compensations, and these pictures never fade, but come, when familiar scenes or objects are suggested. The adult is deeply interested in form and color, and likes to have them minutely described. This fact is not well understood by sighted friends, and so the blind are often deprived of details which would give them keenest pleasure, because friends fear to recall painful memories. In this connection, and by way of conclusion, I shall give a poem written by one of our pupils, who lost his eyes when a drummer boy in the Civil War. This man learned to read raised type after being blind fifty-three years. His poem follows: A BLIND MAN'S SOLILOQUY. What, then, is blindness? This and nothing more: The window blinds are closed, the outer door Close shut and bolted, and the curtains drawn. No more comes light of stars nor morning's dawn, Nor one lone ray from day's meridian light. And men pass by and say "within is night!" Not so; for Memory's lamp, with steady blaze, Shines on the hallowed scenes of other days, While Fancy's torch, prophetic, flashing through The vistas of the future, brings to view Scenes passing strange, but scenes that yet shall be, Which I can see, but which he can not see Whose dazzled orbs find nothing hid away Beyond the brilliant margin of today. To me the radiant world forever gleams With the rich halo of my boyish dreams; The faces I have loved no wrinkles know; My dear ones' eyes ne'er lose their cherished glow; The hair of gold ne'er turns to silver hair; The young are young, the fair are always fair. With reason strengthened, feelings more intense, The senses, multiples of former sense, Vicarious servants for dead sight become. I see the city in the city's hum; I catch its subtle undertone of trade; I hear of fortunes lost and fortunes made, In sounds to him a mystery profound Who, seeing, knows not vision muffles sound. Distinct to him must sound become, to whom Life walks in darkness--call it not in gloom. 'Tis only an exchange of good for good, A new plant growing where the old one stood, Old blessings taken, and new blessings given; Sweet compensation, thou wert born in heaven! There is not silence unto him whose soul In darkness sits and listens. Like a scroll On which the secrets of the world are traced, Blindness is but a sea-shell kindly placed Beside the ear, and in its varying tone, Who will, may make life's secret all his own. And thus misfortunes bless, for blindness brings A power to pierce the depths of hidden things, To walk where reason and fair fancy lead, To read the riddle of men's thoughts, to read The soul's arcana in each subtler tone, And make man's joys and sorrows all my own. Nor can I sit repining at my lot As bitter or unjust, or curse the shot Which tore away my sight. The world is kind And gentle to her sons. Though I am blind, Smooth paths of enterprise have always stood Open for me, and, doing what I could, With hand or brain, with simple earnestness, Have gathered what was due me of success. O you, who sit in darkness, moaning o'er Your dead and vanished vision, mourn no more! Keep in the current. Be you brave and strong! The busy world is singing--join the song, And you shall find, if you no duty shirk, Who will may prosper, if he do but work. And as a last thought, permit me to quote the concluding words of Clarence Hawkes' wonderful book, "Hitting the Dark Trail": "If night has overtaken me at noonday, yet have I found beauty in night. The sun at noontide showed me the world and all its wonder but the night has shown me the universe, the countless stars and illimitable spaces, the vastness and the wonder of all life. The perfect day only showed me man's world, but the night showed me God's Universe." THE BLIND CHILD AND ITS DEVELOPMENT. As a foreword to this lecture, I shall quote from a paper entitled "Blind Children And How To Care For Them," written by Dr. F. Park Lewis, an eminent oculist of New York City, and a man who has devoted much time and thought to the blind and their needs. Dr. Lewis says: "It is the mind and the spirit which control, and when these are great, they dominate and rise superior to mere physical deficiencies. The inspiration of great ideals must be held out to the blind, even more than to the seeing, from the very beginning. It is not enough that the blind man or woman shall have physical strength, but his training must be so well balanced as to give him poise as well as vigor. It does not suffice that the blind man shall be as well educated as his fellow who sees. Handicapped by the loss of the most important of his special senses, he must supplement this deficiency by a better training of his mind and body. It is not enough that he should have the good character of the average man. His word and his reputation should be beyond question. He should be independent, and proudly unwilling, except when absolutely necessary, to accept that for which he can not, in some way, return an equivalent. He must be taught to reason with clearness and logical precision, for he must succeed by the aid of his mentality and character, rather than by his manual exertions. These facts are emphasized here, because if such qualities are to be secured, the training which produces them should begin in the cradle." If I could bring it about, a copy of the foregoing lines should be framed and placed on the desk of every teacher of blind children, and such teachers requested to read these words at least once each day. In considering the development of the blind child, we must recognize the fact that, in mental attainment, at least, he is the peer of the child who sees. But in order to bring this about, the early years of the child must be carefully supervised, and his training calculated to fit him for the tremendous task awaiting him, a task requiring the courage of a Spartan, the wisdom of Solomon, and the patience of Job. Unfortunately, the parents of blind children rarely understand the importance of this early training. They are too often too absorbed in their own sorrow at having a child so afflicted, too sure that loss of eyesight means loss of mental vigor, to realize that their own attitude, their own self-pity, may prove a greater handicap to the child than blindness itself. If a child lives in a house where he is waited upon, and made to feel that mere existence and the ability to eat and sleep are all that may reasonably be expected of him, and that he must depend upon his family for everything, he will grow up helpless, selfish and awkward, and no amount of later training will entirely counteract the pernicious effect produced in these early, formative years. When placed in school with other children, he will be very sensitive to correction, and may become morbid and unhappy, thus giving a wrong impression of the blind in general. If, on the other hand, the child is taught to be self-helpful, permitted to join in the work and play of other children, made to feel that, with greater effort, he may do just what they do, he will soon become cheerfully alert and hopefully alive to all the possibilities of his peculiar position. It is true that natural disposition has much to do with one's outlook on life, but cheerfulness and a certain form of stoicism may be cultivated, and to the blind child these qualities are absolutely essential if he is to attain any measure of success in later life. It would be foolish for me to ignore the difficulties and limitations in the path of everyone deprived of eyesight, either in infancy or adult life, but I know that these very limitations and difficulties may aid in forming a character whose quiet strength and unfaltering courage can not fail to win the admiration and co-operation of all who witness its tireless efforts for success. But in order to achieve success, let me repeat that such training must begin at the earliest possible date. You may never have thought of it, but the blind child has no model, no pattern. It must acquire everything. It learns nothing by imitation. The normal child copies the gestures and mannerisms of its parents, and so learns many things unconsciously, and with little or no instruction. But the blind child must be taught to smile, to shake hands, to hold up its head, to walk properly, to present and receive objects, and the thousand and one details of daily living so naturally acquired under ordinary conditions. Long before it has reached school age, the blind child should be permitted to romp with other children, to take bumps and bruises as part of the game, and should be encouraged to run, jump rope, and join in all harmless sports, thus acquiring that freedom of movement, muscular co-ordination, and fearless bearing, so necessary if he is to cope successfully with the difficulties awaiting him. His toys should be chosen to instruct as well as amuse, and in this way he should be made familiar with the different forms, the square, the circle, the oblong, the triangle and the pyramid. The Goddard form board and Montessori insets are invaluable at this period. He should be trained to recognize the difference between smooth and rough, soft and hard, light and heavy, thick and thin. He should be given plasticine or clay with which to model, and be urged to reproduce his toys, thus assisting in the muscular development and intelligent use of his fingers--another essential equipment. As soon as possible, the process of dressing should be taught. The child may learn this more readily if a doll is used as a model, and he is required to put on its clothes each morning, and remove them just before his own bedtime. This important process should be made as interesting as possible, and each successful effort greeted enthusiastically, each failure carefully pointed out, its cause discovered, and its repetition prevented, when possible. In this way he acquires system, learns to put his clothes away in a certain place, and to locate them again without assistance. His little fingers should be kept constantly employed stringing beads, putting pegs in a wooden board, cutting paper with kindergarten scissors, and modelling with plasticine. If thus occupied, he will escape the mannerisms peculiar to the blind child whose only amusement has been to put his fingers in his eyes, shake his hand before his face to see the shadow, rock his body back and forth, and whirl around in dizzy circles. I found just such a child, a girl of eight years, who had never done anything for herself, and whose parents refused to send her to school. It took me some time to win the child's confidence, but when I did, I had no trouble to correct many of her habits, and I soon taught her to dress herself and learn to read. When I asked her what she did all day before I brought her the beads and the little scissors, and she answered, "Oh, I just sat in my rocker, and rocked back and forth, shaking my hands." And when I asked why she did not play and act like other children, she began to cry, and said, "Nobody never told me nothin' else to do till you came." When six years old, a blind child should be sent to the nearest state school for the blind, or to a special class, if there is such a department in the public schools of the city in which it lives. The necessity of sending the child to school thus early can not be too strongly emphasized, and education of blind children should be made compulsory, just as in the case of ordinary children. This is a measure which should be considered by all those interested in child welfare. The unwillingness of parents to send their children away to boarding school at so early an age is one of the strongest arguments in favor of the special classes in public schools. But it is not possible to have such classes in the small cities and towns, and very often the home conditions are often unsuitable for the proper development of a blind child, and so, in every state, a residential school is an absolute necessity. Such a school should consist of a kindergarten, primary, intermediate and high school department, and the life of the children should conform as closely as possible to that of a large family in a well-ordered home. Those in charge of the children should be impressed with the responsibility of the task they have undertaken and should do their utmost to assist in the work of fitting the little ones for the preliminary skirmish in the battle of life. All children should have constant supervision during the formative period, but more especially does the blind child need watchful guidance in his work and at his play. Little habits must be broken, awkward movements discouraged, self confidence fostered, and every effort made to develop the child along sane and normal lines, so that, in later life, he may have the poise and bearing so often lacking in those who are blind from early childhood. It is sometimes claimed that it is not essential that a teacher of the blind be possessed of more than an ordinary education, and this is why so many schools for the blind fail to turn out capable, cultured, self-reliant boys and girls. Dr. Illingworth, the noted English educator, gives the following qualifications for a teacher of the blind: "a sound education, self-control in a high degree, a boundless enthusiasm, a determination to succeed, should be kind and sympathetic, and at the same time firm, and should be true to his word." These are qualifications which should be possessed alike by the blind teacher and sighted teacher, and only teachers so qualified should be entrusted with the divine privilege of bringing light to the minds of these helpless little ones. I wish to add a few more qualifications to Dr. Illingworth's list, and they are these: a broad, comprehending sympathy, a sense of humor, and a heart brimming with love for all children--a heart capable of sharing the joy and grief of every child heart. And I wish to emphasize, in a special manner, one of the doctor's qualifications--namely, "a boundless enthusiasm," and to add yet another, a living, breathing faith that teaching is a divine calling, and that the opportunities for good or ill are limitless. To be successful, a teacher should be able to bring himself to the level of his pupil. I once heard a man say of a great teacher, "he had the heart of a boy, and understood our every thought and feeling." In many schools for the blind the inspirational value of a blind teacher is overlooked or ignored. In this connection Dr. Illingworth says: "it is almost as impossible for a seeing teacher to realize what it is to be blind, and know all the difficulties of his blind pupil, as for a congenitally blind person to enter into and share with one who can see, the beauty of a glorious picture or landscape." Dr. Illingworth continues, "it takes a seeing teacher to become what might be called a naturalized blind person, that is, one able to see things from the blind point of view; though he is never in the favorable position of a blind teacher who can say to a child, 'do it so; I can do it--I am blind like you.'" In the residential schools Dr. Illingworth recommends that the ratio of blind teachers to seeing should be one to two. He says, "their very presence is a continual inspiration and incentive to the pupils," and he adds, "the education of blind children in those subjects in which the methods of instruction are necessarily and essentially totally different from those of the seeing, is best in the hands of a properly qualified blind teacher." The wisdom of this recommendation is recognized in the largest schools of England and France, and some of them have blind superintendents as well. America is slower to recognize the ability of the blind, but this period of reconstruction and readjustment through which we are passing may quicken their sense of the importance of employing blind teachers and superintendents, whenever possible. Superintendents are no longer required to perform clerical work. All these details are left to stenographers and bookkeepers. Neither is the superintendent expected to teach. But he should be a scholar, a man of culture, with broad vision and high ideals, and with a sympathetic knowledge of the difficulties to be met and overcome by the students in his care. It should be the aim of the residential school to train its pupils along lines best suited to their individual needs, and, when possible, to fit them to become partially self-supporting, if not wholly so. The child in a residential school knows very little of life outside the buildings, knows little of the trials and struggles going on in its own home, perhaps. Its days are well ordered. It is clothed and fed, and is not expected to practice self-denial or to exercise any of the qualities of courage or fortitude which the exigencies of later life demand. Clarence Hawkes says: "courage a blind person should have above everything else. He must be literally steeped in it. It will not do to have just the ordinary, temporary supply allotted to the average seeing man--he will run out in a single day. But he must have courage that is perennial, a ceaseless fount of it--courage for the morning, courage for the noonday, and courage for the evening. Life is a battle and a struggle which never ends. He must fight for hope and cheer, laughter and happiness, every inch of the way along life's path." Another writer has said, "courage is the standing army of the soul, keeping it from conquest, pillage and slavery." But the child in the residential school knows little of all this, has little occasion to know. Dr. Park Lewis says: "The added importance of having blind children educated with those who see is, that they may realize more keenly the real difficulties of life which are to be met, and which have to be overcome. They will not always find kindness and courtesy, and they must be prepared to adjust themselves to the harder conditions when they arise." When the child finishes the required curriculum of the residential school, and goes forth to his place in the world, he is often unprepared for the struggle, unable to adjust himself to the altered conditions, lacking in patience, perseverance and pluck; the "three P's" of which Clarence Hawkes so often speaks, and without which he claims no blind person can successfully overcome his handicap. The need for this preparation is better known to a blind teacher or superintendent, and for that reason, if for no other, his presence in the school is desirable. He knows the value of higher education to the blind, and he will urge the pupils to fit themselves for college, reminding them that blindness is a physical, not a mental, handicap. And who is better qualified to fire the youthful mind, to strengthen the wavering ambition, and arouse the latent enthusiasm, than one who has made the effort, has fought the fight, and won gloriously! Although Dr. Warring Wilkinson, who was Superintendent of the California School for the Blind for over forty years, and his brother Charles, who taught for the same period--although neither of these men was blind, they were true teachers and college men, and understood the value of scholastic attainment to the blind. As far back as I can remember, they urged us all to prepare for college, and, to stimulate this desire, they kept in close touch with the work of the university, and often brought essays written by the advanced students, to encourage us in our literary efforts, assuring us with a little practice we could write as well. Often, too, they would take classes to hear a lecture on some subject under discussion, thus forging the first link between the school and the university, in whose shadow our young lives were spent. In preparing us for competition with seeing students, Mr. Charles Wilkinson used to say: "never ask for quarter because of your blindness. Do your work so well that people will say not, 'how wonderful this is considering your affliction,' but 'how perfect in spite of it!'" This thought has remained constantly with me, strengthening and encouraging me, enabling me to overcome difficulties that would otherwise have been impossible to surmount. It is of vital importance that the blind should have pleasant, well-modulated voices, and for this reason elocution should be included in the course of study. In recent years a number of blind students in eastern schools have been trained as readers and public entertainers, a line of work in which eyesight is not an essential factor. Reading aloud should be encouraged among the pupils, and frequent speed tests given, thus stimulating in them a desire for reading. The school at Berkeley has included business methods in its course of study, and this is an excellent thing, because the day is not far distant when the ability of the blind to fill positions as typewriters, stenographers, telephone and dictaphone operators, and salesmen, will be recognized. And when this time comes, let us hope that our young people may be ready and eager to prove their worth in these lines of endeavor. If the students are made to feel that they are blazing a trail, and making it less difficult for others to follow, their ultimate success is assured. Having outlined the aim and purpose of the residential school, and shown it to be a necessary factor in the education of the blind in every state, I wish to call attention to some of the advantages to be derived from coeducation of blind and seeing children. As early as 1900 Chicago started a special class for blind children as a part of its public school system, thus inaugurating the movement in this country, if not in the world. Since that time many large cities, including Boston, New York, Jersey City, Rochester, Milwaukee, Detroit, Cleveland, Toledo, Cincinnati and Los Angeles, have started similar classes, carrying the children from the kindergarten, through elementary and high school, and preparing them for college. The class in Chicago was started through the efforts of John B. Curtis, a blind teacher, and the Superintendent of Public School classes of Cleveland, Toledo and Cincinnati. Mr. R. B. Irwin, is a blind man, and so it is not strange that a blind teacher of Los Angeles should be the first to recognize the need of such a class in this state. The State Library was glad to further this forward movement in the education of blind children, and permitted me to devote a great deal of time to organizing the class, and it provided the books and some of the apparatus for carrying on the work for the first year. It still supplies many of the books, though the Board of Education provides its own apparatus. Dr. Albert Shiels, Superintendent of the Los Angeles City Schools, was glad to have a class for the blind in the city, since he has seen how successfully the work was carried on in New York, where more than two hundred children attend special classes, and this in spite of the fact that New York has two state schools for the blind. When the home conditions are favorable, and a special class is available, it is wiser to permit the blind child to remain with its parents, to attend school each morning with its brothers and sisters. In this way there is no break in the family relation and the child does not grow indifferent to home ties, as so often happens when he is sent to a residential school. Mr. Irwin says "the special class is the twentieth century emphasis on the integrity of the home." On January 2, 1917, the Los Angeles class started with eight pupils enrolled, and on June 30 of this year the number had increased to seventeen, with the prospect of more at the opening of the fall term. Teachers for special classes are generally chosen from the regular school department, their work being usually directed by a blind supervisor. In pursuance of my work as home teacher I found a number of children for whom there was no room in the State School at Berkeley, and before the special class was organized I taught these children in their homes or at the library. Miss Frances Blend, a grade teacher, asked to study with me, since she wished to teach the blind here or in the East. I sent her to teach the children, and in this way she acquired the necessary experience, learned to read and write Braille rapidly, and gained an insight into the psychology of the blind child, so, when the board of education needed a teacher for the special class she was ready and eager for the task. Since then Miss Blend's sister has qualified and is now the second teacher in the blind department, eight to ten children being considered all that one teacher can properly care for. Among the poor of every large city, there are children whose parents conceal them, for fear they may be sent away to school. These are known as hidden children, and I found one such child tucked away under the bed, and was told she always hid there when she heard strange voices. She was a little Mexican girl, and spoke no English. She is now one of the brightest children in the class, and her parents are delighted that they need not part with her. In the special class, the children are trained to speak intelligently of things which they do not see with the physical sight, so that they may be able to converse naturally upon ordinary topics, and need not have to plead ignorance, on the ground of never having seen this or that object. Their minds are filled with a love for all beautiful things, especially flowers and pictures, and they are frequently taken to parks and museums. They are told about the stars, the blue sky, sunsets, the majesty of the ocean, and all the other wonders that enchant the eye; and they are taught to speak of "seeing" these things, because they really do see them with the mental vision, keener, in many instances, than mere physical sight. The boys of the polytechnic high school made a wonderful doll house for the children--a house of four rooms, fully furnished throughout. The children made their own rugs and baskets, tables and chairs, and one boy modeled a bathtub of plasticine, perfect in design. The house has a sloping roof, and it is thatched, and I must confess that my first real knowledge of roofs was gained from examining that one on the doll house. It has a chimney, too, and a stovepipe, and so the children learn a great deal from this miniature home of their dolls. In their special classroom, the children are taught Braille reading and writing, and a great deal of time is given to these branches. They are taught all sorts of handwork, basketry, weaving, knitting, modeling, and chair caning, and, when old enough, they are sent with the other children to sewing, cooking, sloyd and music classes. As soon as possible, they recite with the regular classes, their lessons being previously read or explained by the special teacher. This gives them the contact with normal children, so necessary to the development of the blind child. Those not in favor of special classes claim that this competition is too severe a strain, and that it is unkind and unwise to place blind children with those whose physical advantages and opportunities for study are greater. But we have found that the plan works admirably. The special teacher trains her pupils to be self-reliant and helpful, insists that they join in the games of the others, assuring them that, with greater effort, they, too, may play, and it is delightful to watch them at recess or at noon, each blind child affectionately led by a seeing child, the latter calling the teacher's attention to the successful performance of some feat on the part of his blind playmate. In the classroom, too, the spirit is the same, the blind child remembering things for the one who sees, and the seeing child using his eyes for the one who is blind. The special teacher trains the memory of her pupils to the highest possible degree, impressing upon them that their minds are vast storehouses in which to keep all sorts of knowledge tucked away for future use, and that it is disastrous to blind children to forget. In mental arithmetic, they usually lead the class. Their presence in the school is of the greatest help to the others with whom they work in class. Their success in overcoming difficulties is a stimulus to the pride and an incentive to the ambition of the seeing child. The presence of the blind children is a constant reminder to them of their superior physical advantages, and they are ashamed to have them outstrip them, as they so often do, in intellectual work. And so the presence of the blind child is sure to result in untold good, not only to the child so handicapped, but to the entire school, removing as it must, the belief, now, alas, so general, that when eyesight is lost, all is lost. Trained side by side with its sighted companions, doing the same work as well, if not better, the later success of the young blind seeker after knowledge is practically assured; for, as I have said, in mental attainment, at least, the blind child is the peer of the child with eyesight,--here, beyond cavil, the chances are equal. To my mind, the coeducation of the blind and seeing is a step in the right direction--a very forward step, since it will ultimately bridge the gulf of misconception and skepticism now separating these two classes--a gulf which must be bridged if we hope to arrive at a sane and satisfactory solution of the problem of finding employment, not only for the returned blind soldiers, but for the thousands of intelligent blind men and women who are waiting eagerly, hungrily, for a chance to prove their ability, a chance to earn their daily bread. When blind and seeing children are trained side by side, from the kindergarten, through the grades into high school, and on to college, perhaps, the barriers dissolve, the blind boy and the seeing boy are comrades--they have played together, worked together, and together they have planned their future. The seeing boy knows the blind boy will succeed because he has seen him victorious in many a mental skirmish. Just this May, right here in the University at Berkeley, a blind student graduated fourth in a class of more than one thousand seeing students. It may be interesting to note, in passing, that there are seven blind students now attending the university, and that the state provides three hundred dollars a year to defray the expense of a reader for each student. New York was the first state to provide readers for blind college students, and this was brought about through the efforts of Dr. Newel Perry, a blind graduate of the University of California, now a teacher of mathematics in the California School for the Blind. Dr. Newel Perry was largely instrumental in the passage of a similar bill in this state, and so once again, the blind are indebted to a blind teacher for advancement. But all the children in the special classes will not care to go to college, and for those who do not, other work will be provided, manual training given, and all sorts of trades encouraged. Here, too, they will have the added stimulus of studying side by side with their sighted companions. It is my earnest hope that some day this state will establish a technical school for the blind. In such a school, a deft-fingered intelligent blind boy could learn electric wiring, pipe fitting, screw fitting, bolt nutting, assembling of chandeliers and telephone parts, trained as a plumber's helper, and taught to read gas and electric meters, by passing the fingers over the dial--in short, a variety of trades and occupations could be pursued with profit to the school and to the students. But while waiting for the establishment of such a school, there is much to be done by way of preparation. We must prove the truth of Clarence Hawkes' assertion that "blindness is, after all, but a 25 per cent handicap in the race of life." But it _is_ a handicap, no matter what profession is adopted. I analyze the handicap thus: 24 per cent of it is the prejudice and unbelief of the public, and the other 1 per cent is the lack of eyesight. I believe this is not too strong. In speaking of the handicap, Clarence Hawkes continues: "a blind person, in order to succeed equally with the seeing, must put in 125 per cent of energy before he can stand abreast of his seeing competitor." But in order to prove blindness to be but a 25 per cent handicap, we must train our blind children from their earliest infancy. We must not sidetrack them. We must plant their feet firmly on the highroad of life, encourage their first, faltering steps, teach them to go forward fearlessly, with head erect and shoulders squared, warn them of pitfalls and hidden thorns, show them the wisdom of making haste slowly when the path is steep or uneven, impress upon their minds the importance to others of their success, and, above all, train them to have confidence in themselves, teach them to realize that, because of their struggles and limitations, they have a mental equipment and reserve force possessed by very few of their more fortunate fellow beings. Thus trained and fortified, our young blind people will work like Trojans to prove their ability to those who doubt it, and succeed in removing one obstacle after another, until they stand ready to take equal chances with any who may be pitted against them. The hand of the sightless worker is steadier, and his courage greater, because of the years of struggle and constant effort of which his sighted competitors can form no conception. And so those in charge of the education of the blind, whether in residential schools or public school classes, have a herculean task before them, but if their hearts are in the work, if they are alive to their wonderful opportunity for service, and if they have faith in the ability of their pupils, the future success of these handicapped young people is practically assured. As with the nation today, so with those interested in the welfare of the blind--we look to the children for the fulfillment of our highest ideals, and hope, in their advancement, to see our "dearest dreams come true." I am often called visionary, and I am proud to confess that I have a vision, a wonderful vision of the future of the blind. It may not be realized during my lifetime, but if some of the children I have inspired will take up the torch, and carry it on unfalteringly, I shall be satisfied. Meantime, I walk by the light of my vision along rough roads, across strange streams, up hills that are steep and rock-strewn; and, though my courage sometimes fails, and my strength seems unequal to the task, the light shines clear and steady, and I go forward, in the glad assurance that one day my vision will be realized, my cherished dream for the emancipation of my people, the emancipation of the blind, _must_ "come true." THE RE-EDUCATION OF THE BLIND ADULT, With Special Reference to the Blinded Soldier. "A voice came in the darkness And lifted the curtain of Mind; I saw that fingers could be Also eyes to the blind. I touched, I thought, I saw, And the dark shades rolled aside. And to you my heart pays tribute. Dear teacher, friend and guide." These lines were sent to me by one of my blind pupils after he had learned to read and write the Braille characters. They express the purpose of re-education, and indicate the means by which it may be attained. Rehabilitate, reconstruct, re-educate--these are familiar terms in this hour of stress and world conflict. To the minds of many, these words may present problems that are entirely new, but to the social worker, and those whose lives have been spent in the service of the handicapped men and women of our civil communities, the problem presented is no new one, the only difference being that, whereas, hitherto, only a few recognized the problem, today, stirred by the knowledge of war and its frightful consequences, every one is eager to share in the rehabilitation movement now sweeping over the land. The re-education of the blinded soldier is, after all, only the re-education of the blind adult, and he has been with us, lo, these many years! Adult blindness has increased alarmingly in the past half century, and the problem of providing for this unfortunate class has assumed proportions. The prospect of having to care for thousands of blinded soldiers has led to a consideration of the blind and their possible rehabilitation, and much good should result from the united effort. We extend a cordial invitation to all to "come over to Macedonia and help." The California State Library has been engaged in the re-education of the blind adult since it opened its Books for the Blind Department in December, 1904. At first it supplied books to those who already knew how to read, but soon it became evident that its field of usefulness could extend to the adult suddenly deprived of eyesight, and not eligible to a school for the blind. And thus the need for home teaching became apparent long before the State Library could employ such a teacher. I realized this need, even before leaving school, and it was my privilege to teach as a volunteer for twenty years prior to my appointment as home teacher for the State Library. During that period I taught the blind of this and neighboring states, and, before books were made available by the State Library I copied stories and poems suited to the tastes of my individual pupils. In this way I came in close touch with the blind and their problems, and my every waking moment was devoted to their service and although there were "Heavy burdens in the load, And too few helpers on the road," I clung to the belief that some day help would come, and I should be permitted to enlarge my scope of usefulness, and reach all who needed re-education. And this hope was realized in July, 1914, when the State Library asked me to accept the position of Home Teacher of the Blind of the state. As early as 1890 Pennsylvania started home teaching in this country, but its work was privately maintained. Since then other states have established such departments, Massachusetts, New York, Ohio, Illinois, but these have special appropriations for carrying on the work. Our State Library is doing it out of its general appropriation, and as a phase of its extension. It is the only state library maintaining such a department in connection with regular library work. Some of the large cities have reading rooms in their public libraries, where books are loaned on application, and where reading is taught to those who can go there for lessons. The duties of the State Library home teachers are manifold. This department has steadily grown in importance until now it is recognized as the very bone and sinew of work for the blind in this state. Some of the teacher's duties are, first, to teach raised type to all who can not see to read ordinary print, (a person need not be totally blind in order to read in this way, as many learn who can see to go about alone): second, to search for, and when possible, place either in the school at Berkeley, or the special class in Los Angeles, all blind children who have reached the age of six years; third, to conduct a campaign for the prevention of blindness and conservation of vision in adults and children; and, lastly, to set forth the needs of the blind, convince the public that its attitude toward them is often an added affliction, and correct a few of the many mistaken ideas concerning those deprived of eyesight, who are, necessarily, somewhat handicapped in the race of life. The importance of this last duty can not be overestimated, and so my next lecture will present this subject in its many phases, with the hope of creating a better understanding between the blind and the seeing--an understanding which will not only help the blind adult now in our midst, but aid materially in the re-education of the blinded soldier. My task is not an easy one, but I love my work and my pupils, and I have come to know that the public needs, not so much to be instructed, as to be reminded. Our first borrower was a lady of ninety years, and so we realized at once that there was practically no age limit in this work, thus proving the truth of the well-known saying, "we are never too old to learn." A man of ninety, with hands toil-worn and crippled from rheumatism, was able, after a few weeks of study, to read with pleasure, his only regret being that he had not learned twenty years before, when blindness first came upon him. When it is considered that, during all those years, the man had not read a single word, his progress is truly remarkable, and the fact that he is reading has stimulated others who, on account of their advanced age, hesitated to study the raised types. The requirements for study are simple--a love for reading, persistent application, and a determination to succeed. If a person did not care to read with his eyes, he will certainly not be willing to learn with his fingers. This is a fact not well understood, and it is very generally supposed that all blind people want to learn to read. Among our elderly borrowers are doctors, judges, ministers, teachers and authors, and to them the reading has given a new lease of life. There are invalids among our elderly people--men and women in wheel chairs, with crippled limbs, sometimes deprived of the use of one hand--but they are reading, and their pleasure is beautiful to see. One woman of eighty-seven, who has not walked for four years, and blind one year, learned to read last January, and since that time she has read twenty books, besides knitting squares for the Red Cross. The type read by the elderly borrowers, and those with toil-hardened hands, or suffering from some nervous affection, was formulated by a blind man, Dr. William Moon, of London, about 1845, and is called Moon type. The characters are large and distinct, many of them being shaped like the ordinary printed letters. They are easily learned, and this type is invaluable, not only for old people, but in cases where, in order to restore lost confidence, a quick return is imperative. Dr. Moon lost his eyesight in early manhood, and spent the remaining years of his life perfecting his system, printing books and pamphlets, and going about teaching the poor of London, thus inaugurating home teaching for the blind. Moon type books have been printed in many languages, and thousands of men and women have been blessed and brightened by the unique philanthropy of this blind man. His son, Robert Moon, brought the type to Pennsylvania, and that state and ours lead in the number of Moon books in circulation. Often when a borrower has read Moon for six months or a year, he is able to learn the Braille, his fingers being trained by the Moon to remain in a proscribed space, and his confidence in their ability fully established. This is a potent factor in mastering a dotted system, as the progress is generally slow and laborious, especially for elderly people. The fact that an adult can learn to read with the fingers seems very wonderful to the uninitiated, and, indeed, it is a long step forward, but the ability to substitute fingers for eyes is only one of the marvels wrought. Helen Keller has truly said that "idleness is the greatest burden of the blind," and this is why our work with them is so acceptable, though the reading is, after all, only the means to an end. While training the fingers to perform their new functions, I strive to renew hope and courage in the hearts of the pupils, assuring them that they may still do many things that were possible before their blindness. Self-reliance and helpfulness--minus self-pity--this is the formula I use when urging the pupils to make the most of life; for when a man is sorry for himself, he is on the road to despair, and his condition is well nigh hopeless. When the pupils are able to read and write once more, after having given up all hope of ever doing so, their confidence is restored, and a way is opened to new and hitherto undreamed-of possibilities. Old aims and pursuits, relinquished when the eyesight failed, are once more remembered and discussed, and, in many instances, resumed, thus bringing back the light, not to the eyes, but to the mind, through work. John Newton says: "You can not shove the darkness out of a room, but you _can_ shine it out." I see this miracle performed every day, yet to me it is ever new, ever wonderful, stimulating me to greater efforts for my people--because the blind _are_ my people, and their joys and sorrows, triumphs and defeats, find an echo in my heart. When the raised alphabet is mastered, books are sent from the State Library to the homes, through the mail, free of cost, and thus there is no expense incurred, and as this service is tax-supported, there is no element of charity connected with it. At present, the State Library employs two home teachers, and the number will be increased as the need arises. One of these, Miss Catharine J. Morrison, is stationed at Los Angeles, having been appointed to take my place there when I was transferred to San Francisco last October. The arrangement for this transfer was one of the last official acts of the late State Librarian, my well-loved chief. Mr. Gillis was devoted to the blind, and extended the service to this section at the earliest possible moment. The State Library selected me as home teacher, not only because of my years of experience with the blind, but because, blind from early infancy, I was familiar with the handicaps and discouragements that overwhelm the adult but recently deprived of eyesight. The pupils have confidence in a blind teacher, because they know that every step in their difficult path is familiar to her feet. The qualifications for a home teacher are, briefly, these: personality, adaptability, tact, a sense of humor, a broad, comprehending sympathy, a strongly hoping heart, unlimited patience, and a determination to do what is best for her pupils, no matter what the opposition, or how hard the task may be. "He who can plant courage in the human soul is the best physician," and this is one of the chief duties of the home teacher. Some knowledge of nervous diseases is also essential, and it is often necessary to exercise the greatest care and patience in giving the first few lessons, as an unwise word, or a failure to understand conditions, may lead to untold misery. This is especially true in cases of sudden blindness, as the pupil is often afraid to move about his own room, confused by the altered conditions, and bewildered by a multitude of sounds hitherto unnoticed. It is absolutely necessary to have the co-operation of the family, and I am often obliged to insist that changes be made in the household arrangements, in order to help a pupil through the trying period of readjustment. This is sometimes fraught with difficulties for both pupil and teacher, but the latter should never lose sight of the comfort and benefit of her charge, and should care nothing for unreasonable objections or selfish protests. The blind adult is in need of some one who, while recognizing the undeniable calamity and loss, is yet ready to lend a steadying hand, encourage the uncertain feet to their old, free movements, lead the troubled thoughts into other channels, and find new methods of doing old things. Thus encouraged, the blind adult will soon resume his normal attitude, realize that much good work may yet be done, and that others have blazed a trail which he may follow, if he will. But if his family and friends feel that, because eyesight is lost, all is lost, and tell him that, because of his affliction he can do nothing, he will do nothing. But if they tell him he has a handicap, and that they will help him to work it off, all his fighting blood will come to the rescue, and he will say, with Emerson, "the king is the man who can." I give this sentence to all my pupils, and their spirit leaps to the call, and, holding to my hand for the first few, uncertain steps, trusting in my assurance that very soon they will find their way along this new path, the bent shoulders straighten, the bowed head is lifted, the darkness is dispelled by the light of purpose, soul sight replaces physical sight, and the pupil is ready to face life again, undaunted and unafraid. What a wonderful privilege, what a rare opportunity for service, to the teacher alive to the possibilities of her unique position! "When the song goes out of your life, you can not start another while it is ringing in your ears; but let a bit of a silence fall, and then, maybe, a psalm will come, by and by." To live by a song is all very beautiful and wonderful, but to live by a psalm is braver and worthier. And, in the case of the blind adult, the readjustment period may be called the interim between the song and the psalm. During these trying months, the blind adult should not be left alone, to fight his way "out of darkness, through blood, into light." He should have immediate and competent care at the hands of one who is familiar with his needs, and familiar, too, with the possibilities of his altered condition. An occupation, however light, is an absolute necessity. Enforced idleness is an added affliction, and one not easily borne. The government realizes this fact, and its program for the blinded soldier includes many forms of handcraft, to be taught in the hospitals. Netting is taught, and the soldiers are encouraged to whittle. I was glad to see this latter occupation included in the "first aid" program, as I have recommended it for many years. When a man whittles, he whistles, maybe not just at first, but some day, almost before he realizes it, he finds himself whistling, and he is then well on the road toward a sane acceptance of the new conditions. I have found whittling to be as soothing to masculine nerves as knitting or crocheting to feminine ones. The ability to use the hands in some light work, removes the feeling of helplessness and enables the adult to keep his mind on his fingers; and this effort at concentration is often the means of preserving reason, and reviving in the soul the desire to take up the struggle of life again. At this stage, the adult should be induced to learn to read raised type, and to write letters to his friends. There are several writing devices by means of which a blind person can once more use pencil or pen, and the ability to do this marks another milestone in his progress. When the adult is able to read and write once more, perhaps to use the typewriter, he feels encouraged, and begins to ask what other blind men are doing, and to wonder what avenues of usefulness still remain open to him. Whenever practicable, I induce the men to resume their former occupations, or suggest other lines of work suited to their altered condition. One young man who was an electrical engineer before his blindness, now wires houses in Los Angeles, his work always passing the inspector, despite the opposition of sighted competitors. He has his own shop, and there he assembles chandeliers, repairs motors, and charges storage batteries. It takes him longer to do the work than formerly, but its character is the same, and his heart sings with the joy of the task, and he is working off his handicap, in the hope that others may follow where he leads. In May he cleared one hundred and fifty dollars, above all expenses. Another young man supports two small children raising poultry, designing his own roosts, coops and troughs. Another man is making good selling janitor and sanitary supplies to hotels and apartment houses. Two of the men are doing well in a house to house canvass for brushes of various kinds. Several men are in the real estate business, and one has bought a home and is supporting his aged father. Another does expert work with the typewriter and dictaphone. I encourage the women to knit, crochet, sew and cook by proving to them that this is possible without eyesight, and I feel certain that, through such efforts, many a domestic tragedy has been averted. I induce the older men, or those who can not take up any line of business, to work in the garden, chop wood, cut lawns, go to the near-by stores, and make themselves a necessary factor in the household. The possibilities of our work, and the real good accomplished, can not be told in words, but its effects may be seen in many homes where men and women, strengthened and encouraged, are once more assuming their rightful places in the household, sharing the work and the responsibility, just as in the days before blindness came upon them. In order to bring the work within reach of those to whom it is not possible to give oral instruction, we have a correspondence course for pupils in this and neighboring states. In this way, we are reaching people from Humboldt to San Diego county in this state, and the list includes persons from Arizona, Washington, Nevada and Oregon. This course is well known to every county librarian in the state, and even custodians of very small branches send us the names of blind persons in their vicinity. Among the correspondence pupils is a man who was superintendent of a power plant before losing his eyesight, and he still holds the position, despite his handicap. He tests meters in three power houses daily, walking a distance of three miles in order to reach them all. I taught him to read and write two systems, to use a writing board, and he has now mastered the typewriter. He is a brave man silently fighting his way along the dark trail, and I am privileged in being permitted to guide his unaccustomed feet over the rocks and crevices I have long since learned to avoid. Another of the pupils is in the insurance business, and is also one of the Four Minute men in his country's service. I could give you many more instances of the splendid courage of these men and women who, though deprived of the most important of the special senses in adult life, are cheerfully doing their best, wasting no time in straining after the fruit just over "Fate's barbed wire fence." Our work carries us into hospitals and almshouses, and, through the co-operation of charitable organizations, we find the poor and, in addition to teaching them to read, we endeavor to better their condition, and the charities are always glad to second our efforts. The teacher in Los Angeles goes regularly to the County Hospital and County Farm, and up here I teach in the San Francisco Hospital, Relief Home, and in the San Leandro Infirmary, and it is a great joy to minister to these lonely, friendless souls. In the Relief Home I have a splendid class, and I go there once each week, and read to all the men in the ward, blind and seeing, before giving the lessons. Two of the men are knitting, one is making squares for the Belgian baby blankets, and the other a muffler for the Navy League. When I asked for volunteer knitters, one old colored man said, "Madam, my hands are not steady enough to knit, but I can hold the yarn for some man to wind." I am also teaching in the State Industrial Home for Adult Blind in Oakland, and I look upon the afternoon spent there as the redletter day of the week. I go from there each Tuesday with a fresh supply of courage and inspiration. The men collect funny stories to tell me, and the women show their appreciation in countless, little ways. The State Library is proud of its borrowers in this institution, and not long ago had some pictures taken, showing the men reading[1] and the women knitting. It is an inspiring sight to see the men waiting for their lessons. They come in from the shop, where they have been sorting broom corn, sewing or tying brooms--young men and old--all eager to avail themselves of the services of the teacher, anxious to learn everything possible that will help to broaden their outlook on life--fine, brave fellows, all of them. Many have become blind within recent years, victims of industrial accidents in factories, quarries or mines. The thought of the blinded soldier has roused these men to renewed effort, in the hope that their success as broom makers may encourage other blind men who must learn a trade after the war. And their broom shop is a wonderful place to visit, with seventy blind men, and a blind foreman to inspire and encourage the workers. The business of the institution is principally wholesale, although some of the blind men have worked up a good retail trade in Oakland. The sales of the institution average $6,500 per month, and with increased capital, more material and a larger plant, it could handle three times its present business. The board of directors will ask the legislature to increase the appropriation, to enlarge the plant, and to provide an industrial teacher to go into the homes of the blind, teach them weaving, basketry, chair caning and knitting, the Home to market the products, deducting the cost of material from the amount paid to the workers. This industrial teacher is greatly needed, and it is hoped the legislature will make it possible for the Home to enlarge its sphere of usefulness and provide employment for many who are not inmates, but who need to contribute to their own support. [Footnote 1: See illustration, p. 4.] The men of the Home are not alone in their desire to help in the hour of their country's need. More than a dozen women are knitting for the men in the trenches. They are an Auxiliary of the Navy League, and their work is the finest of any turned in by the thousands of knitters in the bay region. They knit socks and sweaters, helmets and mufflers. One of the women made five pairs of socks in one week, with never a dropped stitch anywhere. This same woman made three sweaters in ten days, all perfect garments. The wife of the superintendent is the teacher, and two of the blind women help the others by picking up dropped stitches, straightening puckers, and suggesting easier methods to the inexperienced workers. Those who can not knit, snip rags for the ambulance pillows, hem Red Cross handkerchiefs, and sew on hospital quilts. In addition to this, a blind invalid in San Francisco rips up work poorly done by seeing knitters, and the members of our wonderful auxiliary make perfect garments from the used wool. This stimulates them to do their very best, for they know they are proving to the public that the fingers of the blind worker are deft and sure, and that, given the opportunity, they can knit as well, and often better, than their more fortunate sisters. They feel, too, that they are doing their best to promote the comfort of the soldiers, doing it evenings, after working in the shop all day, where they cane chairs and make toy and whisk brooms. I am sure we need not go to the hospitals of France in search of blind heroes--we have them right here in our midst, and are proud of them. The State Library permits me to devote all the time necessary to keep the women supplied with wool, and return the garments to the Navy League. The library regards this as a part of its campaign of enlightenment, and it is confident untold good will result, both to the public and to the blind. In addition to their work, both men and women read a great deal, and dozens of books are mailed to and from the Home each day. And so the State Library is doing its share toward the re-education of the blind adult, has been doing it for the past thirteen years. It provides the best books available in the various types. It has over eight thousand books in circulation, and its list of borrowers numbers more than one thousand. The keynote of this department is Service, and each borrower is made to feel that his success is of vital importance to the Library, and when a new reader is added to the list, a note is usually sent, welcoming him to the family circle. For we are all like one large family circle--with common aims, common interests and a common goal--namely, to spread far and wide the gospel of home teaching, to do our best in order to help others similarly placed, and to prove ourselves worthy of the help so generously given by the State Library. Another potent factor in the work of re-education is the Matilda Ziegler Magazine, a periodical in raised type published since 1907, through the generosity of Mrs. Matilda Ziegler, head of the Royal Baking Powder Company of New York. This magazine is printed in New York City, and sent to the homes of more than twelve thousand persons in the United States and Canada. It is like any other magazine, with current events, timely articles, short stories, poetry, a woman's page, and a page of humor. In addition to this, every month there is an article telling of the success of some blind person, the account written by the man or woman in the form of a letter to the editor. And the manager, Mr. Walter G. Holmes, is a man with a heart of gold; he has his finger on the pulse of the blind of the country, and he believes in them, loves them, and brings out the best that is in them. Every number contains a map of some of the warring countries, and so the readers are kept in touch with all the vital issues of the day. Many a man is induced to learn to read raised type just to read this magazine. And so Mrs. Ziegler's philanthropy can not be too highly commended, and her name and that of Mr. Holmes are enshrined in the hearts of the blind. Her service to them is incalculable. The government is making extensive preparation for the re-education of our blinded soldiers, both in the hospitals of France and the hospital school at Baltimore. The grounds and some of the buildings of this school were given to the government by Mrs. T. Harrison Garrett of Baltimore, and no expense is being spared in providing every care and facility for the training and comfort of the blind soldiers who are to be rehabilitated and returned, not to the battlefields of France, but to the battle ground of life. The government plans to begin the re-education in the base hospitals, to continue it at the ports of embarkation, and complete it in the hospital school at Baltimore. The training in this school is to be patterned after that of St. Dunstan's in London, where the work of re-education, under the direction of Sir Arthur Pearson, himself a blind man, is meeting with the greatest success. The Red Cross Institute for the Blind is on the same grounds as the Hospital School, and is supplementing the work of the government in a most able manner. Typewriting, dictaphone, switchboard operating, telegraphy, osteopathy, massage, and salesmanship are to be taught to those who are fitted for these branches; and trades and occupations, including piano tuning, winding coils for armatures used in electric motors, joinery, mat and mattress making, broom and basket making, rug weaving, and shoe cobbling are to be taught to those who are not fitted for the professions. The government will send over to France at least one blind teacher for each base hospital, for his inspirational value to the men during the first trying months of the readjustment period. Blind teachers will be employed in this country, too, and the government is already looking about for those best qualified for such positions. All blind soldiers will be given an opportunity to learn to read and write the raised system, and provision is being made for an enlarged circulation of books, and for newer publications to be embossed in the universal Braille system. In this work, the volunteers who learn to write Braille can materially assist, by copying short stories, timely articles, and nonsense verse to be distributed among the blind of their communities, and for the pleasure of the returned soldiers. When the men have been a sufficient time in the hospital school, they are to be returned to their own cities and towns, and the government, through its agent empowered to find employment for handicapped soldiers, will endeavor to secure work for them in existing industrial institutions and plants in the various states. It is also planned to place capable blind men in shops with the seeing, whenever possible. I say whenever possible, for it will take time and much effort to persuade employers to include blind men among their employees. But the day is not far distant when the public will see the wisdom of providing work for its handicapped men and women, and condemn those who fail to co-operate with the government in securing positions for those qualified to fill them. The government is generous in its appropriation of funds to carry on this re-education, but it does not include the civilian blind in this program. The blind adult in civil life must be employed or cared for by the civilian population, and this brings me to the discussion of the attitude of the public toward the blind since three-fourths of the blind of America could be gainfully employed right now, if the public would only believe in them, would only give them an opportunity to prove their ability. With his remaining faculties keenly alert, with a courage and fortitude born of many trials, the blind adult is prepared to face life squarely, undaunted and unafraid, asking only to take his place on the firing line, to march shoulder to shoulder with his seeing brother, and to do a man's work in the world. THE ATTITUDE OF THE PUBLIC TOWARD THE BLIND. In discussing this subject I realize I have a most difficult and delicate task before me--a task which only a blind person can adequately perform. I approach it with no misgiving, with no unkind feeling, for, as I have previously stated, I believe the public needs, not so much to be instructed, as to be reminded, and I believe it will be glad to have some of its mistaken ideas corrected, and thus bring about a better understanding between the two classes. In the first place, I wish to mention some popular fallacies concerning the blind. Chief among these is the idea that all blind people are so much happier than sighted people. This belief seems very general, and comes, I suppose, as a result of the feeling of the average human being that, if deprived of eyesight, he could never be induced to laugh again. The blind adult soon realizes that "humor is a shock absorber," and that "mirth is the soul's best medicine." When my pupils fail to recognize the efficacy of humor, I establish a rule that they must laugh at least once during each lesson, and very soon they agree with Charles Lamb that "a laugh is worth a hundred groans in any market." One of my foreign pupils said to me when I spoke of his cheerful attitude, "Madam, I laugh that I may not weep." And this is the key to much of the cheerfulness of the blind, whose philosophy is not often understood by their sighted friends. There is nothing really remarkable about making the best of a trying situation, unless it is the small percentage of persons who do so. People feel so sorry for the blind that they are often unable to address them at all, or, when they do speak, convey a whole world of well-meant but misdirected sympathy in a few ill-chosen words. This misdirected sympathy is one of the hardest things the blind adult has to bear, and often when I urge a man to go out among his friends as he did when he could see, he answers, "I can't do it just yet. I can't bear the pitying tone. It would make me lose my grip, and I must not let go." And sometimes I go to his friends and explain the situation, and persuade them to call on their friend, take him out with them, talk to him of the ordinary, commonplace happenings, keeping their sympathy well disguised, or, rather, showing a comprehending sympathy, a sympathy that recognizes a brave man's effort to accept his fate unwhimperingly. Another popular belief is that the blind are naturally very religious. Unfortunately, this belief seems to be shared by those who selected many of the books to be printed in raised types, since about one-half of the books selected are of a religious character. The blind are naturally introspective, and their power of concentration is greater than that of the average person, but I have not found them to be unusually religious. I do not think that blindness increases or decreases the religious tendency. A third fallacy is that the blind can tell colors by feeling. This is absolutely impossible. I have heard of men who could tell the difference of color in horses, but, upon questioning them closely, I found that the texture of the hair varied in light and dark colored animals. Of course, there is an odor about some colored dyes, such as black and indigo blue. Some of the blind are themselves responsible for fostering this belief, but they do it to test the credulity of the public, and they do not know the real harm they are doing to the cause. It is a common belief, too, that all blind people like music, and are especially gifted in this art. I do not believe that the percentage of really musical blind people is greater than that of persons who see. Sometimes a blind man or woman will study music either as a pastime, or in the hope of making a living, but the lack of eyesight does not increase or diminish one's musical ability. In the lecture on the psychology of blindness, I endeavored to prove that the blind were not possessed of greater faculties than their seeing fellows, but that loss of eyesight made it imperative to cultivate the remaining senses to a very high degree, and that such cultivation led to a greater keenness in the interpretation of the information furnished the remaining senses. When told that the blind do many things well and quickly by employing methods different than those who see, the information comes as a shock, when it is not entirely discredited. There is an idea prevalent among so-called well informed men and women that a loss of eyesight carries with it a loss of mental vigor, and a total inability to engage in any of the world's work. This belief, and the many foolish notions which it breeds, presents one of the greatest difficulties to be met, and, if possible, overcome, by the blind man or woman obliged to earn a livelihood. So potent is eyesight considered that, without it, some people think it impossible to perform even the simplest duties, and the person obliged to substitute fingers for eyes, and memory for pad and pencil is regarded as a marvel of intelligence and skill, and as possessing a sixth sense. Anything done by the blind, from recognizing a voice to remembering a street number, is considered wonderful by the average person, and this attitude is very trying to the blind adult who is striving to adjust himself to new conditions, and train his remaining faculties to the highest possible degree of efficiency. The commiseration and incredulous words of his friends is one of the greatest trials which the blind adult is called upon to bear, and it is not strange that he is often embittered and discouraged, and unwilling to subject himself to the thoughtless comments and undisguised pity of his former associates. These associates do not realize that their attitude has changed or that they are adding another burden to the already heavy load borne by their friend. They are sorry, honestly sorry, and want so much to help, but to their minds blindness is the greatest of all afflictions, and loss of eyesight is accompanied by a corresponding loss of physical ability and mental vigor, unless the person so afflicted is unusually gifted, and, in that case, he is regarded as the marvel of the age. Unfortunately, the percentage of gifted people is no greater among the blind than among the seeing, and so it is not strange that many of the former class are unable to cope with the difficulties and discouragements that blindness entails, when thousands of seeing people succumb to what they consider the unequal struggle for existence. As a class I honestly believe that blind people are more courageous than seeing people, and I am sure that a greater demand is made upon their stock of courage. This demand will be lessened when the public learns to look upon blindness as a physical, not a mental handicap, and when, instead of compelling persons so handicapped to sit on the side lines holding their broken swords, it leads them forward, places a new sword in their hands, and brings them the glad tidings that they are needed on the firing line. Loss of eyesight is always deplorable, but it is not so terrible as the isolation which generally follows it, an isolation due, in large measure, to misconception, lack of information, and misplaced sympathy on the part of the public, generous to a fault in bestowing alms, but slow to believe in the ability of the blind, and the wisdom of employing them. If the public could be brought to look upon the blind, not as an isolated class whose affliction entitles them to the pity and generous alms of those more fortunate, but as men and women, with normal aims and desires, just as full of hope, just as eager to work, and just as interested in things as when they saw them through the natural medium, their handicap would be lessened and their lives much happier. Most people think all that can be done for the blind is to divert them, amuse them, provide for them in institutions, or encourage them to accept private charity. This lack of understanding on the part of the public is the greatest drawback to the advancement of the blind, and often leads to untold misery. Occupation the blind should have, must have, if they are to enjoy any degree of happiness, or retain their self-respect. Loss of eyesight does not deprive a man of his desire to earn his daily bread, or to provide for those dependent upon him. He is willing and eager to work, and should be given the chance. A French physician, himself without eyesight, said: "So long as the blind can still bring their stone, however small it may be, to the building of civilization, or of bringing happiness to their kind, they feel that they live; and whatever be the wounds received, they are not out of the battle of life--the inequality of arms only increases their ardor." This inequality of arms should, and usually does, act as a spur to the courageous man or woman, but to the mind of the average sighted person, this inequality seems to apply inability, and so very little is expected of the blind, and little thought is given to their possibilities. Senator Gore, the blind Senator from Oklahoma, says: "It is a mistake to tell the sightless their loss is insurmountable or inconsequential. It is neither. The sightless confront a situation, not a theory. We ought to study their problems, and help them to lessen their burdens, to smooth their path, and to multiply their resources, to enable them to adapt themselves to a new and sometimes a strange environment; to help them to adjust themselves to a new set of circumstances, which presents a different problem, as it presents a different situation from those who possess the sense of sight." "And," the Senator concludes, "the greatest service we can render to the blind is to help them to help themselves." And this is where the public can help, though, as I have said, in its mistaken kindness, it more often hinders, and encourages the blind to accept alms, instead of making it possible for them to become self-supporting, self-respecting men and women. The constantly increasing number of blinded men in the warring countries has made it imperative to find work in which they can successfully engage, and trades and occupations hitherto untried have been found to be both practicable and lucrative. What Sir Arthur Pearson is doing for the blinded soldiers at St. Dunstan's is little short of marvelous, and his success should help the cause in all parts of the world. In Eastern cities, a large number of the blind are gainfully employed, and new avenues of usefulness are being opened to them. At Ampere, New Jersey, Dr. Schuyler S. Wheeler has formed what he calls the Double Duty Finger Guild. This is composed of some twenty blind people, sixteen men and four women, and they have been taught to wind coils for armatures used in electric motors and mill machinery. These people earn from a dollar and a half to two dollars a day, and their work is done as well as that of the sighted employees, though, just at first, a little more time is required. They are making up this discrepancy slowly, but surely, and it is thought they will soon do the work as fast as the sighted operatives. Unfortunately, on this coast, we have no factories where this winding is done, as most of the electric concerns here do repair work, which varies so that it would be difficult for the blind operative to keep changing from one kind of work to another. Henry Ford employs a number of blind men in his factory at Detroit. There the men fit nuts to bolts, wind armatures, assemble different parts of machinery, and fold paper boxes. In his factory Mr. Ford also employs other handicapped men, and has machinery especially devised for their use. He believes that all large factories should employ a certain percentage of handicapped workers, as its contribution to the rehabilitation movement, and it is to be hoped his example may be followed by employers all over the country. The Light-House for the Blind in New York City, the Cleveland Association for the Blind in Ohio, and other similar associations are doing splendid work in arousing the interest of the public, and in finding employment for blind men and women, both in their homes, and in shops with sighted persons. Mattress making and upholstering have been found particularly adapted to the blind, and in Boston thousands of mattresses are made and renovated yearly by blind workers employed in the shops of the Massachusetts Commission for the Blind. Folding towels in laundries, wrapping bread, packing catsup bottles and fruit cans are some of the things being successfully done in the East. And the increasing shortage of labor will induce employers throughout the country to see the light, and realize that what the blind operative loses because of lack of sight, he makes up by increased concentration and faithfulness to duty. In the West, the people have very little faith in the ability of the blind, but in time we hope the social consciousness will become less lethargic, and that the mental and physical needs of this class will be given the consideration accorded to them in the larger cities throughout the East. The San Francisco Association for the Blind, a privately-maintained institution, is doing good work in arousing public interest, and in its shops the men are taught to make brooms and reed furniture, and the women to weave rugs and make baskets. It is in constant search for new fields of endeavor, and this spring it induced one of the largest canneries to employ over twenty blind people to sort asparagus, and the same cannery has selected a number of the best workers to cut fruit in its orchards in the Santa Clara Valley. All this is very encouraging, but it is only a beginning, as there are hundreds of blind in this state who should be contributing to their own support. This is why an enlargement of the plant of the Industrial Home for Adult Blind in Oakland is so urgently needed, for, after all, the state should assume the duty of providing its handicapped civilians with employment, instead of caring for them in almshouses, or permitting them to become objects of private charity. The state should see to it that its blind children receive an education which will fit them to earn their own living. All schools for the blind should be under the direct supervision of Boards of Education, who should give the same careful consideration to the problem of educating blind children as is now given to the education of seeing children. And this is one argument in favor of classes for the blind in the public schools. Vocational training is of more importance to the blind child than to his more fortunate brother, and when this is recognized, one of the barriers to his success will be removed. Is there any reason why an intelligent blind youth especially interested in medicine, should not be trained as an anatomist, a heart and lung specialist, an osteopath or a masseur? He does not need eyes to listen to heart beats, find the third vertebra, or rub the kinks out of a refractory muscle. In Japan the government reserves massage as an occupation for the blind, and in the hospitals of England and France blind masseurs are given the preference, and their work receives the highest commendation. Los Angeles has a blind anatomist at the head of its College of Osteopathy, and several blind osteopaths. When mentally equipped, all blind students should be sent to college, and urged to fit themselves as teachers. In every college and university blind men should occupy chairs in history, English, economics, and mathematics. I know two blind men in this state well qualified to teach any of these subjects, who are forced to accept inferior positions, because educators generally fail to realize that blindness is no bar to mental attainment, and that the ability to teach does not depend upon the ability to see with the eyes. This will be better understood when the coeducation of blind and seeing children becomes more general--God speed the day! As music teachers, concert players, leaders of orchestra, or masters of the violin and 'cello, the blind should have an even chance of success, but their inability to read music at sight, or watch the director's baton often deprives them of positions which their quick ear and well trained memory would enable them to fill with profit to themselves and satisfaction to the public. And so in all the professions. I know a man who, before he lost his eyesight, was considered an eminent lawyer, but now his associates regard him pityingly, and his clients take their business elsewhere. When the light went out of the eyes of this brilliant man, it did not take his brain as well. He is fitted to be a consulting lawyer or court pleader, and could occupy a chair in a college of law. Surely, there is something radically wrong when these conditions exist! Surely the public needs to open its eyes, and polish its glasses in order to see more clearly that there is a mental blindness, more pitiful, more far-reaching in its consequences, than physical blindness, however hard or uncomfortable the latter condition may be. Some one facetiously suggested that I call this lecture "bringing light to the seeing," and, in a sense, this is what I am trying to do. But the light is carried by a kindly hand, and the hand is the index to a heart in which there is no bitterness, no malice, no distrust--a heart brimming over with love, with hope, with confidence, and with a belief that the public _will_ see the light, and, seeing it, and reading my message in its beams, will pass it on to others, adding to it as it goes, until it floods every corner of our vast state, and result in untold good for my people. And let me tell you how this light may be disseminated--let me apportion your share in this labor of love, this highest form of social service, this movement of re-education now sweeping over the land. I am so often asked by those who wish to volunteer in their country's service, "What can I do to help in the re-education of the blinded soldier?" And I invariably answer, "You can first help in the re-education of the public, and this will be the greatest service you can render to the men blinded in battle." In order to know what lines of work will be available for them when they return, we must look about and see what the adult blind of our civil communities are doing. If we can not employ all these who are willing and able to work, how can we hope to employ an increased number later on? Let us ask ourselves what the blind can do, and then, how much of this are we permitting them to do? If we are an employer of salesmen, and one of our employees has recently lost his eyesight, let us ask ourselves why, when he came to us and urged us to let him continue to sell our goods, we told him that, although he had been a faithful worker, and we were exceedingly sorry for his misfortune, we could not retain his services, because competition was so great, and so many unexpected things happened, and we felt we could not entrust our business to any one who did not possess all his faculties. We meant to be very kind, and we thought every word we said was true, but was it true? Did that man sell our goods with his eyes, or did he sell them by using his tongue and his personality to persuade customers to patronize us? If he had a boy to go about with him, could he not talk as convincingly, work as hard, and, indeed, might he not put forth a greater effort to extend our business and make himself invaluable to us? This is a typical case, and one that occurs almost daily. So it is in all lines of work the blind man or woman attempts. A blind piano tuner asks for work from house to house, just as a sighted tuner has to do, but, whereas we sometimes employ the latter, we refuse the former, saying, we could not trust our instrument to the hands of a blind man, and maybe we offer him a small piece of silver to lessen the hurt we have unwittingly inflicted. Perhaps a man with defective eyesight asks to clean house or help in the garden, or work on a ranch, or perform some light task in a store. The same condition obtains. We are so hurried these days, we must have the work done with the greatest possible expediency, and so we can not entrust it to any one who is handicapped, although we are sorry, and really wish we could do something for such people. And so sometimes, men who started out with high hopes and lofty ideals are forced to the streets, there to depend upon the spasmodic charity of the passerby, and to attract this wavering attention of the public, the man resorts to all sorts of subterfuges, from holding up pencils and gum to grinding out popular tunes on a wheezing old hand organ. Sometimes these men have families and feel they must make this effort to maintain them. Many of them try to sell newspapers on the corners of our principal streets, but here, too, the competition is very great, and little boys patrol the curb, holding the ever-ready paper under the nose of the hurrying pedestrian who, though he may be conscious of the blind man selling in front of a building, thinks he can not spare time to go to him for a paper, and so snatches one from the waiting boy, throws him the pennies, and jumps on a moving car. Selling newspapers is better suited to a blind man than almost any other line of business. I mean the man who has never learned a trade, or who has no special profession. If the government could commandeer this line of work for its blind civilians, I am sure there would be fewer itinerant street musicians, gum or pencil venders. Of course, after a while, the blind man reduced to playing on the streets, becomes accustomed to the excitement, the roar of traffic, and covers, I will not say earns, more money than he could by canvassing, piano tuning, or making brooms. And so, once started on this road, once accustomed to the acceptance of public charity, it is almost impossible to induce the street vender or musician to try a more legitimate means of livelihood. He invariably says, in answer to the protest of those who have the interest and advancement of the blind at heart, "When you can find me a job where I can earn as much as I do right here, I'll take it, but until then, I must live, and I must help to support my family." Meanwhile these street merchants are creating an erroneous impression in the minds of the unthinking, but ever sympathetic public, leading it to believe that begging is all that the blind can do; and so, when asked to employ a blind person, even in the smallest capacity, people mention the blind of the street, and say they will gladly contribute to the support of the sightless either in institutions, or by private charity, but they do not believe in their ability to perform work of any kind. Of course, this is not the answer given in every case, but it is the reply generally made to all such requests. This is the sad state of affairs here and in many of the large cities throughout the country, and this is why the State Library is conducting a campaign for the enlightenment of the public. Whenever possible, I raise my voice in this cause, before clubs and organizations, high schools and colleges, in order to change this mistaken attitude, in order to urge a saner point of view. In presenting this gospel of work for the blind, I put the matter very plainly, prove to the public that it is to blame for many of the conditions I deplore, laugh at its incredulity, score its misconception, urge a broader, more comprehensive sympathy, and usually leave the platform with the assurance that I have won many recruits in this campaign so dear to my heart. As I said in my last lecture, the government has a well-defined plan for the re-education of its blinded soldiers. But suppose this plan is carried out, and the men are returned to their home cities, qualified to pursue a certain line of work, only to find that the public does not share the government's confidence, is unwilling to give them an opportunity to prove their ability? The public will cheerfully pay taxes to care for these men in idleness and seclusion, thus diverting to the rear of life's battle line these heroes who have given the most precious of all their physical possessions in their country's cause. The soldier killed on the field of battle pays the supreme sacrifice all in a moment, but the sacrifice of the blinded soldier is lifelong. Are we going to find employment for these returned heroes, or are we going to add yet another burden to their already heavy load? Are we going to add the burden of dependence to the burden of darkness? If we want these men to know that we appreciate the service they have rendered to their country, let us provide occupations for them, and in order to do this let us begin by employing the civilian blind, the blind right here in our midst. Let us study the problem with an open mind, freed from the old prejudice and unbelief; let us turn the light on ourselves, and see that it is we who sit in darkness. Let us ask the blind leaders of the blind what work can be done without eyesight, and let us be guided by their judgment, their experience. And, as a bit of Red Cross service, let us employ the blind; let us create a demand for their labor; let us ask for work made by the blind, and tell our friends to ask for it; let us buy our newspapers from the men on the streets, and let us give our magazine subscriptions to blind men who have subscription agencies; let us patronize blind lawyers, osteopaths, salesmen, piano tuners and musicians. Let us find other and broader avenues of usefulness for these our civil blind heroes, who went into the dark with no blare of trumpets, no applause from cheering multitudes, and who wear no badge of honor on their breasts. Let us do this, so that when the blinded soldiers return, we may welcome them with the glad tidings that we have work waiting for them, that we know they can do it, because blind men and women here have blazed the trail, and have, by their splendid courage and boundless enthusiasm, succeeded in changing the attitude of the public, and removing the last lingering vestige of doubt as to the ability of the blind to become self-supporting, self-respecting citizens. In this campaign of enlightenment, this bit of Red Cross service for the blinded soldiers and the blind adults of our civil communities, every one of you can help, and I feel sure it will be unnecessary for me to ask a pledge of co-operation from any one who has heard me speak this afternoon. The State Library is heartily with me in every phase of this campaign, and, with its co-operation and encouragement, I go fearlessly forward, overcoming obstacles, uprooting prejudices, laboring with heart and mind and voice in the service of the blind and in the hope of bringing about a clearer understanding of their needs in the minds of the public. And now, in conclusion, let me tell you my dream for the future of the blind, a dream which, please God, will one day come true. I dream of seeing blind men occupying chairs in our colleges and universities, blind heart and lung specialists, anatomists and osteopaths, lawyers and lecturers. In my dream, I see blind salesmen, telegraphers, musicians, piano tuners and electricians, and other men making brooms, brushes, mattresses and furniture now so often made by prison labor. And in my dream, I see blind women teachers, stenographers, dictaphone and switchboard operators; and other women knitting, crocheting, sewing, cooking, weaving rugs and making baskets, and doing the work side by side with their more fortunate sisters, and doing it as well, and often better. Then and only then will the greatest sting be removed from blindness; then and only then will the blind beggar depart from our public thoroughfares, and when all these things come to pass, my dream for my people will be realized. Aren't you going to help to make my dream "come true"? PREVENTION OF BLINDNESS AND CONSERVATION OF VISION IN ADULTS AND CHILDREN.[2] Helen Keller, in writing on prevention of blindness, says: "Try to realize what blindness means to those whose joyous activity is stricken to inactivity. It is to live long, long days, and life is made up of days. It is to live immured, baffled, impotent, all God's world shut out. It is to sit helpless, defrauded, while your spirit strains and tugs at its fetters, and your shoulders ache with the burden they are denied--the rightful burden of labor." [Footnote 2: Reprinted from News Notes of California Libraries, vol. 14, no. 1, Jan. 1919.] When I was twelve years old, the well-known oculist, Dr Barkan of blessed memory, came to examine the eyes of all the children in the School for the Blind at Berkeley. I was the first to be examined, and I remember distinctly every word of the great doctor when, after looking at my eyes, he turned to the superintendent, and said sadly, "Needlessly blind! her eyesight _could_ have been saved." These words made a profound impression upon my childish mind, and as I sat and listened, while child after child was examined, and heard again and again the same remark, "needlessly blind!" I resolved to know more about this eye disease with the very long name, ophthalmia neonatorum, to learn its cause, and see just how it might have been prevented. But we did not hear as much about prevention as we do now, and, although I did not forget the matter, it was many years before I had an opportunity to study it further. When I did, I found that at least one-fourth of the children in schools for the blind in this country were there, just because a simple precaution was not taken at the time of their birth. Five years before I knew there was such a thing as unnecessary blindness (since I had been told I was blind as the result of a severe cold in the eyes), a Belgian doctor, Professor Crede, a famous obstetrician of Leipsic, appalled at the number of children who lost their eyesight within a few days after birth from a virulent eye infection, determined to try the effect of a simple prophylaxis, a two per cent solution of nitrate of silver, dropped in the eyes of every newborn child. The effect of the prophylaxis used in Dr Crede's clinic was marvelous, reducing the number of cases from ten per cent in 1880, to one-fourth of one per cent in 1886. "Babies' sore eyes," or ophthalmia neonatorum, is defined by Dr Sydney Stephenson as "an inflammatory disease of the conjunctiva, usually appearing within the first few days of life, due to the action of a pus-producing germ introduced into the eyes of the infant at birth." Dr Crede found that, by putting two drops of the solution into each of the infant's eyes at birth, all danger of infection was averted. The solution is harmless to healthy eyes, and, in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, destroys infecting germs when they are present. The cost of the drops is nominal, about two cents per patient, and yet over ten thousand persons in the United States, and as many more in other countries, have been deprived of the most important of the special senses through the ignorance and neglect of doctors and midwives, and the public at large, as to the gravity of the disease, and the methods of prevention. It is estimated that twenty babies in every one thousand have sore eyes, and that from five to eight of these cases are serious, and capable of causing blindness. Infant ophthalmia is found among all classes, but more especially among the poor, who must so often depend upon the services of a midwife or neighbor who, in most instances, does not know the meaning of the word antiseptic. Consequently, it was found necessary to make laws for the prevention of this disease. For various reasons, it is difficult to pass a law making the use of a prophylaxis compulsory, and in only a few states has this been done. But in more than thirty states the immediate reporting of infants' sore eyes is compulsory, and in thirteen states the prophylaxis is distributed free to doctors and midwives. In our own state, every precaution is taken to prevent infant ophthalmia. Dr Edward F. Glaser, secretary of the State Board of Health, has given this subject unlimited time and study, and, with the help of the California State Library, California Society for the Prevention of Blindness, and many social and civic organizations, has conducted a continuous campaign, and has succeeded in passing a law which is both simple and effective, and which has resulted in lowering the percentage of infantile blindness, and in arousing the public to a sense of its duty in this regard. Dr Glaser and the above-named organizations have also rendered yeoman service in securing the passage of laws prohibiting the use of a roller towel, and for the licensing and registering of midwives. In this state, the law for the prevention of infant ophthalmia provides for the immediate reporting of every case of babies' sore eyes, and failure to do so is considered a misdemeanor, and a third offense results in the revocation of the license to practice medicine. In 1915, the State Board of Health purchased 23,000 prophylactic outfits. These are little wax ampules, containing just enough one per cent nitrate of silver solution for the eyes of a child at birth. These ampules are distributed free to physicians and midwives all over the state, and in the past two years, more than 16,000 have been so distributed. In California, the birth certificate asks these questions: "Was a prophylactic for ophthalmia neonatorum used? If so, what?" The birth certificate must be filed within five days. Few doctors have the temerity to ignore these questions, or confess that they have used no prophylactic, so the questions on the certificate insure the use of the nitrate of silver solution in nine cases out of ten, though its use at birth is not made compulsory. Dr Glaser reports that the birth certificates in fourteen of the largest cities of the state, for the year 1917, show that on eighty-seven per cent of the certificates filed, the questions had been answered, and the prophylactic used. In Berkeley, every one of the birth certificates filed in 1917 reported the use of a prophylactic. The State Board of Health insists on the reporting of all communicable diseases, and infant ophthalmia is considered one of these, and in this connection, Dr Glaser says, "a case reported is a case safeguarded, a physician aided, and a community protected." But it is necessary to urge a ceaseless warfare against this most prolific cause of infantile blindness, and social and civic organizations, churches, schools, and all individuals who deplore needless suffering, are asked to give the subject the widest publicity. Physicians are only now beginning to realize that, in all phases of preventive medicine, their strongest, most necessary, and, indeed, essential ally, is the public, and the needed stimulus to a better medical performance is an intelligent knowledge on the part of the people as to what should be done. It is a common belief that ophthalmia neonatorum is an indication that one or both of the infant's parents have led unclean lives, and so, until recently, it has been difficult to have all such cases reported. While ophthalmia neonatorum _is_ often the result of the social evil, the introduction of other pus-producing germs into the eyes at birth is responsible for a large number of cases. So it should be remembered that babies' sore eyes is not a disgrace (any baby may have the disease), but blindness from babies' sore eyes _is_ a disgrace, for, in almost every case, it can be prevented. Dr Park Lewis says: "And when we think of the long life of darkness of the blind, the limited possibilities of the child to be educated, the narrow lines in which he may hope to be trained, the fields of usefulness from which he will be cut off by his blindness, his dependence on others for things he should otherwise do for himself, the financial loss to the community for his maintenance when he might, under happier conditions, not only have been self-supporting, but possibly independent--the pity of it all comes with added emphasis. The importance, then, increases of every intelligent human being knowing that the most serious forms of birth infection of the eyes, in almost every instance, should not have occurred." Dr Lewis continues, "The majority of the blind are not wage earners, and are thus not only an added expense, but an economic loss. The education of each blind child costs the state yearly about three hundred and fifty dollars, while it costs but thirty dollars to educate a seeing child for the same period. Ophthalmia neonatorum is a crime, because of the suffering it brings to helpless, innocent persons, and because it leads to a reduction in economic efficiency, deprivation of many pleasures and privileges and, very often, immeasurable misery, suffering and sorrow during a lifetime in the dark." Of the twenty children brought to me for inspection during the past three years, fifteen were blind from infant ophthalmia, and, as I myself am a victim of this same disease, I am leaving no stone unturned in my efforts to save other children from hardships and limitations that are wholly preventable, and I feel that I am peculiarly fitted to help in this great work. There are other common causes of blindness in children, one of which is phlyetenular keratitis, usually the result of poor or improper feeding, or lack of ventilation, and it often leaves the cornea badly scarred. Tuberculosis of the eyes results in much the same condition, often causing total blindness. Measles and scarlet fever cause blindness or defective vision. Parents do not realize the gravity of these diseases, and fail to cleanse the eyes frequently, or to keep the room properly darkened. In some cities, during epidemics of these diseases, health officers are requested to distribute circulars, calling attention to the danger to the eyes, and giving instructions as to their care. In this state, measles and scarlet fever are among the communicable diseases which must be reported. Trachoma, a virulent form of conjunctivitis, is a communicable eye disease which must be carefully safeguarded. It flourishes in unsanitary surroundings, camps, and homes where the family uses the common wash basin and towel. There are not many cases in this state, but even one is too many. We are profiting by the unhappy experience of Kentucky and other Southern states, and are adopting drastic measures for its prevention. Interstitial keratitis, or inherited syphilis, is a common cause of blindness in children, though, in many cases, the blindness is only partial, and, if taken in time, the remaining eyesight may be saved. This disease usually appears between the ages of four and twenty, often following some childish malady, and it requires the greatest care and most nourishing food to counteract its pernicious effects. The victim of interstitial keratitis is never strong, and, although a blood test may show a negative condition, any serious illness may cause the constitutional trouble to reappear. It is a common belief that children will outgrow cross-eyes. This is not true, for the eye that turns either in or out, will, sooner or later, become useless, simply from disuse. Such children should have attention as early as possible, even in infancy, as properly fitted glasses will usually restore such eyes to their normal condition. Children are often needlessly blind as the result of an unwise and harmful selection of toys, such as scissors, forks, toy pistols, air rifles and bows and arrows. The observance of a sane Fourth of July has lessened the number of accidents to the eyes of children. I have thus far spoken of the prevention of blindness in children, and now I wish to call your attention to what is being done for the conservation of vision in childhood. In the lecture on the development of the blind child, I mentioned special classes for blind children in the public schools. In most of the cities having such classes (Chicago and Los Angeles excepted), sight saving classes, as they are called, are maintained. In these conservation classes, the children do not read with their fingers, but books in heavy face, large type are provided. And for these books we are indebted to Mr R. B. Irwin, the blind supervisor of special classes in Cleveland. So here again we find a blind man planning not only the advancement of blind children, but the conservation of vision of partially-sighted children. In these classes desk blackboards are provided, and a great deal of oral instruction is given, and the amount of reading is limited. A great deal of handwork is required and everything possible is done to save eyestrain. Much time and thought is given to the proper lighting of schoolrooms, and to the color scheme of the buildings. Light should not be judged by its brightness, but rather by the way it helps us to see what we are looking at. Walls should have light paper or tinting, as dark walls absorb light strongly, instead of reflecting it. Reds, greens and browns reflect only ten to fifteen per cent of the light which falls on them; while cream-color or light yellowish tints reflect over one-half the light. As a result of the ophthalmic work of the medical inspection departments of many of our public schools throughout the country, much is being done to help children who are partially blind, or suffering from some visual defect which may lead to blindness if they continue in school under ordinary conditions. Every large city should have one or more of these conservation classes, and the demand for them will increase when the public realizes their importance in saving the sight of school children. Dr De Schuynitz, an eminent oculist of Philadelphia, in an address on conservation of vision, asked these questions: "Shall children be allowed to trifle with their most precious possession? Shall our homes be permitted to disregard the rules of visual hygiene? Shall children, and those children of the larger growth--men and women--remain on the side lines because they can not see well enough to play the great game of stirring life, with its joy of untrammeled effort? Shall they not have a game which they _can_ play? Shall we of these better walks of life pursue our way in smug contentment, and permit the preventable causes of blindness to continue their black business, and ever add to the roll of their victims?" The leading oculists of the country recommend sight-saving classes, and many of them give their time and money to the service of these handicapped children, establishing clinics for their care and treatment. In Los Angeles the Parent-Teacher Association has a wonderful clinic, and Dr Ross A. Harris and his assistants have saved the eyes of hundreds of children who would otherwise have become public charges. But here again it is necessary to educate the public. An old schoolmaster, rich in the wisdom of ripe experience, has said, "More children's eyes are injured in the home than in the school," and his words receive daily verification. But in schools where medical inspection is given, and where a visiting nurse is in attendance, untold good is being accomplished, and children who should wear glasses, and attend conservation classes are promptly sent to the oculist, and assigned a place in school. The commonest visual defects are, first, inflammation of the cornea, or imperfections of the lens--the cornea is often so scarred as to make vision imperfect; second, myopia, or progressive shortsightedness, a condition in which the axis of the eye gradually grows longer. This lengthening is accompanied by stretching of the eyeball, and such children always run the risk of the inner and most important part of the wall of the eye, the retina or nerve layer, being torn away, and blindness resulting. When nearsightedness is discovered early, and glasses are given that make distant vision normal, and all needless near work forbidden, the myopia may be held in check, and any considerable increase prevented. Teachers are usually the first to notice such defects, but many parents do nothing when their attention is called to the matter. But happily these conditions are improving, and the school nurse and school clinic, and all the clinics maintained by public and private charities, are accomplishing wonderful results. When preventive medicine and preventive social service are joined in the effort to help mankind, there must result a saving of our most precious physical possession, and an addition to human joy. The National Committee for the Prevention of Blindness and Conservation of Vision, with headquarters at 130 East Twenty-second street, New York City, carries on a ceaseless campaign of enlightenment by means of pamphlets, lectures, charts, lantern slides and posters, and the work of this society is directed by Mr Edward M. Van Cleve, Superintendent of the School for the Blind in New York City. The leading oculists of the United States are members of the society. Charts and lantern slides are loaned to societies for the prevention of blindness in the various states, and pamphlets on many important topics are sold at a nominal cost. When addressing a large gathering in New York, and urging the wisdom of publicity, Dr De Schuynitz said: "We are here to help in the work of health education, of eyesight protection; we are to call on society for aid in devising measures, and for means to carry them out, in order that effective results shall merge into perfect victory. We are here, too, I take it, to cure those who are dull-sighted in this regard, so that, with vision cleared, they shall join in the struggle for ocular conservation and make it possible to give sweetness of disposition and ever-present cheerfulness, not to the blind, the good God sees to that, but to those who shall be saved from blindness." In New York and Boston, the children are given instruction in hygiene, taught to properly care for the nose, throat, eyes and teeth. These lessons begin as early as the second grade, and are illustrated with charts showing how perfect teeth and eyes should look. These lessons include the harmful effect of enlarged tonsils and adenoids, and the children are very anxious to be in as perfect condition as those shown in the pictures. A teacher of one of these classes in Boston took her children to a museum, where they spent a morning studying statuary. The next day, wishing to see how they had been impressed by what they saw, she asked, among other questions, "What do you remember about Aphrodite?" One little boy held his hand up, saying, "She has adenoids." "What makes you think so?" asked the teacher, wonderingly. "Why, she had her mouth open all the time." The children learn just how far from the eyes a book should be held, and often call attention to a companion whose myopic condition makes it necessary to hold the book very close. And so the outlook for the children is very promising. With conservation of vision classes, classes in hygiene, with school nurses and clinics, with medical inspection of schools, and with the public aroused as never before to its responsibility towards its boys and girls, we should have less need for oculists and schools for the blind, and fewer persons should be obliged to go through life deprived of the light, which was God's first gift to the world. Before discussing the prevention of blindness in adults, I wish to say a few words concerning the attitude of oculists toward patients suffering from eye diseases which, in all probability, will result in loss of vision. If, for some special reason, the oculist fears it would be unwise to tell the patient that blindness is imminent, he should at least urge him to conserve his remaining vision, and advise him to do as many things as possible by touch, and warn him of the consequences of eyestrain. But, whenever possible, it is kinder to prepare the patient for oncoming blindness, so that he may shape his life accordingly, and may be induced to learn to read raised type, and use a writing device, before the light is entirely gone. Most of us exclaim over our trifling hurts, the mosquito bites of life, but when the real trial comes, when we know we must face a great crisis, we square our shoulders, take a long breath, and meet the inevitable with courage and fortitude. I wish the oculists could hear as I do the despairing cry of men and women who were led, until the very last, to hope for a restoration of eyesight, and then told that in their particular case, all usual remedies failed. Dr Daval, an eminent French oculist, who lost his eyesight at sixty, makes an eloquent plea to his colleagues to tell their patients the truth, and, instead of treating them when they know that loss of eyesight is inevitable, advise them to study methods used by the blind, even though they may not need to use the knowledge for months or even years. There are a number of eye diseases that may be inherited, and those having such diseases should be told that they will transmit them to helpless, innocent children. The social evil is largely responsible for the infections of which ophthalmia neonatorum is only one result, but since this disease comes so often from a cause which is not generally discussed, it is particularly hard to combat. Forty per cent of existing blindness, and a vast amount of physical degeneracy, is the direct result of venereal causes. Certain forms of glaucoma may be inherited, and children whose parents have had this disease should watch their own eyes very carefully, since, if taken in time, the progress of this disease, in certain forms, may be arrested. Persons who see rings around the lights should heed the danger signal and see an oculist. Retinitis may also be inherited. I have known of three generations becoming blind from this cause. Nearsightedness may also be inherited. I have known this condition of the eye to be present in four successive generations, and in the last generation, the young woman became totally blind from detached retina, due to excessive eyestrain while in school. If you could see my records, and count the number of cases where blindness is given as the result of straining nearsighted eyes, you would realize with me that progressive myopia should be classed as one of the preventable eye diseases, and a vigorous campaign waged against the marriage of persons so affected. Nearsighted people should be especially careful to avoid eyestrain, and should not work by artificial light. Bookkeepers, hotel clerks, and women who do fine sewing at night should be cautioned against such work, if they are myopic. Optic atrophy is an eye disease very baffling to oculists, sapping the vision slowly but surely, as a rule, but occasionally destroying eyesight in a very short time. Electricians and those working in chemical laboratories are susceptible to optic atrophy. A common cause of eyestrain is reading on street cars, or using the last, lingering bit of daylight to finish a chapter or complete some fine work. It is easier to turn on the light than to spend years in the dark. The eyes of many people are ruined because, instead of going to an oculist to have their eyes properly fitted to glasses, they go into a ten-and-fifteen-cent store, try on a lot of cheap glasses, and purchase the ones that magnify the best, and feel most comfortable on the nose. The cheap varieties of glasses are often made from bits discarded by opticians, and never intended to be used again. People are not always careful in selecting eye shades, and often use those made of very inflammable materials, which frequently catch fire, and destroy the eyesight. I can not understand how people can trifle with the most precious of their physical possessions, and yet my records teem with such instances, and the victims realize when too late how criminally thoughtless and careless they were. Some of our grown-up children need instructions as to the use and abuse of their eyes. In Los Angeles, I addressed the various Parent-Teacher Associations on these important subjects, and I believe that the note of warning sounded by one who is herself a victim of unnecessary blindness, went straight home to every heart. The percentage of adult blindness is increasing at a very rapid rate, owing to the numerous accidents in factories and workshops, accidents that are, in many instances, preventable. Owners of factories, quarries, mines and other industrial plants have become alive to the necessity of safeguarding the eyes of their operatives, and much needed legislation is being enacted in all parts of the country. The National Council of Safety, an organization in existence but five years, has accomplished a great deal and this council co-operates with State Industrial Accident Commissions, and with civic and social organizations. The National Council of Safety estimates that there is one worker killed every 15 minutes, day and night, in the United States, and one injured every 15 seconds, day and night. This gives 30,000 killed and 2,000,000 injured, and of this number 200,000 are eye injuries. The National Committee for the Prevention of Blindness estimates that there are 100,000 blind in the United States, and half this number are needlessly so. Mr Will C. French of the State Industrial Accident Commission estimates that we have 1,000,000 employees in the state, and we have 300 industrial injuries daily, including Sundays. We thus have approximately 100,000 industrial accidents each year in this state. Since 1914, there were 23,451 eye injuries, and of these 549 were permanent injuries, and 11 resulted in total blindness. The medical and compensation costs of these eye injuries will be about $788,000. The 11 blind call for life pensions. The State Library home teachers are teaching 7 out of the 11 cases, and the Industrial Accident Commission is very glad to co-operate with us. In California we have an average of 26 eye injuries each working day, and this number is likely to increase, especially in the shipbuilding industry, because of the chipping steel, use of emery wheels, and machinery in the construction of vessels. The State Accident Commission advocates goggles, one pair to each man. There are four kinds of goggles used. Those for the protection against flying material, for protection against intense heat and light, for protection against gases, fumes and liquids, and dust goggles. Masks are urged for welders and babbiters, and these masks are so strongly constructed that they not only fit the eye, but have shields at the sides of each lens to prevent the flying chips from entering the eyes from the sides. In most of the large plants there are committees of safety composed of employees, and they do much to reduce industrial accidents. Precautionary leaflets are circulated among the workmen, and attractive posters, printed in all languages, are used. Some of these are very effective. One shows a man saying "good-bye" to his wife and five little ones, and underneath is written, "How could they do without you?" One of the best known slogans, and one carrying conviction, is "You can see through glass goggles, but you can't see through glass eyes." Many trades and occupations have their well-recognized types of injury. In the bottling works eyes are frequently lost through the impact of popping corks. The bursting of unprotected water gauges caused many cases of blindness yearly among engineers and machinists. In the grinding trades eyes are frequently lost by bits of flying emery becoming imbedded in the eyeball, and the Industrial Accident Commission recommends iron or glass guards for emery wheels. In factories, quarries and mines more serious damage is done by larger bits of metal or stone. Sometimes harm is done in an attempt to remove the foreign body from the eye, as the hands of the one performing this service may not be clean, or the instrument used may be the corner of a soiled handkerchief, a toothpick or match, or even, as sometimes happens, the tongue. More eyes are injured from infection than from the presence of foreign bodies, which, if properly and carefully removed, might result only in temporary inconvenience and the loss of a few days work. Workmen should not trust to the shop or factory doctor, but should go to the company doctor at once. Immediate and competent care should be secured without delay, and this will save eyes, and also save employers and insurance companies a great deal of money. Lime-burn, solder-burn, and all the so-called dusty trades produce chronic inflammation of the eyes, which often results in total blindness. The National Council of Safety enumerates fifty-five industrial poisons, thirty-six of which affect the eyes. Absorption of drugs often causes blindness--tobacco, wood alcohol, lead, used in so many industries; bisulphide of carbon, used in making rubber; nitro-benzol, used in the manufacture of explosives, and some of the anilin dyes. Hoods and exhausts should be used to prevent the escape of dangerous fumes, vapors and gases. For men exposed to great heat, antisweat pencils have been manufactured, and when these are rubbed over the goggles, the glass will remain clear of steam for hours. Special eye coverings are designed for men working over acids, or in sand blasting. One of our pupils, a man past fifty, who had worked in a creamery for over twenty years, and who usually wore goggles when making tests with sulphuric acid, neglected to take the precautionary measure one morning, and some of the acid splashed up into his eyes. He is totally blind, and must begin life all over again. There have been so many cases of blindness as a result of dynamite explosions occurring in quarries and mines, that laws have been enacted for the protection of workmen. When a blast has been fired, and it is not certain that all the charges have exploded, no person is permitted to enter the place until forty-five minutes after the explosion. My records prove the great need for this precautionary measure, and I only wish it had been enforced years ago, before so many men in the prime of life had been deprived of eyesight, and of earning capacity as well. Improper lighting and ventilating in factories, shops and stores, and work requiring excessive eyestrain, contributes to a long list of disabilities often resulting in total blindness. The passage, by our last Legislature, of the Common Towel Bill, prohibiting the use of roller towels anywhere in the state, has removed one of the most flagrant causes of infection, and one to which very little attention was paid by factory workers generally. I know one young man and two young women whose total blindness is the result of infection from the use of a roller towel. I trust all these facts and figures may not prove wearisome, for it is necessary to know them if you are to realize the extent of the work being done here and elsewhere to prevent blindness and conserve vision. I have not mentioned all the activities of the State Industrial Accident Commission, or the National Council of Safety, but a visit to the Safety Museum, 525 Market street, San Francisco, or to the Union League Building, Los Angeles, will enlighten you further as to the progress of the Safety First movement, and convince you of the wisdom and humanity of it. Let us adopt prevention and conservation as household words; let us do our share in spreading the gospel, and soon we shall have fewer blind babies, fewer children sitting on the side lines, and fewer men and women deprived of eyesight at the floodtide of life. This is another of my dreams, and this one is already coming true. "Let there be light!" was the first recorded utterance of the Most High God. "Let there be light!" has been the watchword on the lips of human progress during all the centuries that have gone, and they must be the battle-cry of Progress during all the centuries that are to come. I am sure we shall all be glad to do our share to preserve this light for our own and future generations. 
12932	----	FOUR MAX CARRADOS DETECTIVE STORIES by ERNEST BRAMAH 1914 CONTENTS THE COIN OF DIONYSIUS THE KNIGHT'S CROSS SIGNAL PROBLEM THE TRAGEDY AT BROOKBEND COTTAGE THE LAST EXPLOIT OF HARRY THE ACTOR THE COIN OF DIONYSIUS It was eight o'clock at night and raining, scarcely a time when a business so limited in its clientele as that of a coin dealer could hope to attract any customer, but a light was still showing in the small shop that bore over its window the name of Baxter, and in the even smaller office at the back the proprietor himself sat reading the latest _Pall Mall_. His enterprise seemed to be justified, for presently the door bell gave its announcement, and throwing down his paper Mr. Baxter went forward. As a matter of fact the dealer had been expecting someone and his manner as he passed into the shop was unmistakably suggestive of a caller of importance. But at the first glance towards his visitor the excess of deference melted out of his bearing, leaving the urbane, self-possessed shopman in the presence of the casual customer. "Mr. Baxter, I think?" said the latter. He had laid aside his dripping umbrella and was unbuttoning overcoat and coat to reach an inner pocket. "You hardly remember me, I suppose? Mr. Carlyle--two years ago I took up a case for you--" "To be sure. Mr. Carlyle, the private detective--" "Inquiry agent," corrected Mr. Carlyle precisely. "Well," smiled Mr. Baxter, "for that matter I am a coin dealer and not an antiquarian or a numismatist. Is there anything in that way that I can do for you?" "Yes," replied his visitor; "it is my turn to consult you." He had taken a small wash-leather bag from the inner pocket and now turned something carefully out upon the counter. "What can you tell me about that?" The dealer gave the coin a moment's scrutiny. "There is no question about this," he replied. "It is a Sicilian tetradrachm of Dionysius." "Yes, I know that--I have it on the label out of the cabinet. I can tell you further that it's supposed to be one that Lord Seastoke gave two hundred and fifty pounds for at the Brice sale in '94." "It seems to me that you can tell me more about it than I can tell you," remarked Mr. Baxter. "What is it that you really want to know?" "I want to know," replied Mr. Carlyle, "whether it is genuine or not." "Has any doubt been cast upon it?" "Certain circumstances raised a suspicion--that is all." The dealer took another look at the tetradrachm through his magnifying glass, holding it by the edge with the careful touch of an expert. Then he shook his head slowly in a confession of ignorance. "Of course I could make a guess--" "No, don't," interrupted Mr. Carlyle hastily. "An arrest hangs on it and nothing short of certainty is any good to me." "Is that so, Mr. Carlyle?" said Mr. Baxter, with increased interest. "Well, to be quite candid, the thing is out of my line. Now if it was a rare Saxon penny or a doubtful noble I'd stake my reputation on my opinion, but I do very little in the classical series." Mr. Carlyle did not attempt to conceal his disappointment as he returned the coin to the bag and replaced the bag in the inner pocket. "I had been relying on you," he grumbled reproachfully. "Where on earth am I to go now?" "There is always the British Museum." "Ah, to be sure, thanks. But will anyone who can tell me be there now?" "Now? No fear!" replied Mr. Baxter. "Go round in the morning--" "But I must know to-night," explained the visitor, reduced to despair again. "To-morrow will be too late for the purpose." Mr. Baxter did not hold out much encouragement in the circumstances. "You can scarcely expect to find anyone at business now," he remarked. "I should have been gone these two hours myself only I happened to have an appointment with an American millionaire who fixed his own time." Something indistinguishable from a wink slid off Mr. Baxter's right eye. "Offmunson he's called, and a bright young pedigree-hunter has traced his descent from Offa, King of Mercia. So he--quite naturally--wants a set of Offas as a sort of collateral proof." "Very interesting," murmured Mr. Carlyle, fidgeting with his watch. "I should love an hour's chat with you about your millionaire customers--some other time. Just now--look here, Baxter, can't you give me a line of introduction to some dealer in this sort of thing who happens to live in town? You must know dozens of experts." "Why, bless my soul, Mr. Carlyle, I don't know a man of them away from his business," said Mr. Baxter, staring. "They may live in Park Lane or they may live in Petticoat Lane for all I know. Besides, there aren't so many experts as you seem to imagine. And the two best will very likely quarrel over it. You've had to do with 'expert witnesses,' I suppose?" "I don't want a witness; there will be no need to give evidence. All I want is an absolutely authoritative pronouncement that I can act on. Is there no one who can really say whether the thing is genuine or not?" Mr. Baxter's meaning silence became cynical in its implication as he continued to look at his visitor across the counter. Then he relaxed. "Stay a bit; there is a man--an amateur--I remember hearing wonderful things about some time ago. They say he really does know." "There you are," explained Mr. Carlyle, much relieved. "There always is someone. Who is he?" "Funny name," replied Baxter. "Something Wynn or Wynn something." He craned his neck to catch sight of an important motor-car that was drawing to the kerb before his window. "Wynn Carrados! You'll excuse me now, Mr. Carlyle, won't you? This looks like Mr. Offmunson." Mr. Carlyle hastily scribbled the name down on his cuff. "Wynn Carrados, right. Where does he live?" "Haven't the remotest idea," replied Baxter, referring the arrangement of his tie to the judgment of the wall mirror. "I have never seen the man myself. Now, Mr. Carlyle, I'm sorry I can't do any more for you. You won't mind, will you?" Mr. Carlyle could not pretend to misunderstand. He enjoyed the distinction of holding open the door for the transatlantic representative of the line of Offa as he went out, and then made his way through the muddy streets back to his office. There was only one way of tracing a private individual at such short notice--through the pages of the directories, and the gentleman did not flatter himself by a very high estimate of his chances. Fortune favoured him, however. He very soon discovered a Wynn Carrados living at Richmond, and, better still, further search failed to unearth another. There was, apparently, only one householder at all events of that name in the neighbourhood of London. He jotted down the address and set out for Richmond. The house was some distance from the station, Mr. Carlyle learned. He took a taxicab and drove, dismissing the vehicle at the gate. He prided himself on his power of observation and the accuracy of his deductions which resulted from it--a detail of his business. "It's nothing more than using one's eyes and putting two and two together," he would modestly declare, when he wished to be deprecatory rather than impressive. By the time he had reached the front door of "The Turrets" he had formed some opinion of the position and tastes of the people who lived there. A man-servant admitted Mr. Carlyle and took his card--his private card, with the bare request for an interview that would not detain Mr. Carrados for ten minutes. Luck still favoured him; Mr. Carrados was at home and would see him at once. The servant, the hall through which they passed, and the room into which he was shown, all contributed something to the deductions which the quietly observant gentleman was half unconsciously recording. "Mr. Carlyle," announced the servant. The room was a library or study. The only occupant, a man of about Carlyle's own age, had been using a typewriter up to the moment of his visitor's entrance. He now turned and stood up with an expression of formal courtesy. "It's very good of you to see me at this hour," apologised Mr. Carlyle. The conventional expression of Mr. Carrados's face changed a little. "Surely my man has got your name wrong?" he explained. "Isn't it Louis Calling?" Mr. Carlyle stopped short and his agreeable smile gave place to a sudden flash of anger or annoyance. "No sir," he replied stiffly. "My name is on the card which you have before you." "I beg your pardon," said Mr. Carrados, with perfect good-humour. "I hadn't seen it. But I used to know a Calling some years ago--at St. Michael's." "St. Michael's!" Mr. Carlyle's features underwent another change, no less instant and sweeping than before. "St. Michael's! Wynn Carrados? Good heavens! it isn't Max Wynn--old 'Winning' Wynn"? "A little older and a little fatter--yes," replied Carrados. "I have changed my name you see." "Extraordinary thing meeting like this," said his visitor, dropping into a chair and staring hard at Mr. Carrados. "I have changed more than my name. How did you recognize me?" "The voice," replied Carrados. "It took me back to that little smoke-dried attic den of yours where we--" "My God!" exclaimed Carlyle bitterly, "don't remind me of what we were going to do in those days." He looked round the well-furnished, handsome room and recalled the other signs of wealth that he had noticed. "At all events, you seem fairly comfortable, Wynn." "I am alternately envied and pitied," replied Carrados, with a placid tolerance of circumstance that seemed characteristic of him. "Still, as you say, I am fairly comfortable." "Envied, I can understand. But why are you pitied?" "Because I am blind," was the tranquil reply. "Blind!" exclaimed Mr. Carlyle, using his own eyes superlatively. "Do you mean--literally blind?" "Literally.... I was riding along a bridle-path through a wood about a dozen years ago with a friend. He was in front. At one point a twig sprang back--you know how easily a thing like that happens. It just flicked my eye--nothing to think twice about." "And that blinded you?" "Yes, ultimately. It's called amaurosis." "I can scarcely believe it. You seem so sure and self-reliant. Your eyes are full of expression--only a little quieter than they used to be. I believe you were typing when I came....Aren't you having me?" "You miss the dog and the stick?" smiled Carrados. "No; it's a fact." "What an awful affliction for you, Max. You were always such an impulsive, reckless sort of fellow--never quiet. You must miss such a fearful lot." "Has anyone else recognized you?" asked Carrados quietly. "Ah, that was the voice, you said," replied Carlyle. "Yes; but other people heard the voice as well. Only I had no blundering, self-confident eyes to be hoodwinked." "That's a rum way of putting it," said Carlyle. "Are your ears never hoodwinked, may I ask?" "Not now. Nor my fingers. Nor any of my other senses that have to look out for themselves." "Well, well," murmured Mr. Carlyle, cut short in his sympathetic emotions. "I'm glad you take it so well. Of course, if you find it an advantage to be blind, old man----" He stopped and reddened. "I beg your pardon," he concluded stiffly. "Not an advantage perhaps," replied the other thoughtfully. "Still it has compensations that one might not think of. A new world to explore, new experiences, new powers awakening; strange new perceptions; life in the fourth dimension. But why do you beg my pardon, Louis?" "I am an ex-solicitor, struck off in connexion with the falsifying of a trust account, Mr. Carrados," replied Carlyle, rising. "Sit down, Louis," said Carrados suavely. His face, even his incredibly living eyes, beamed placid good-nature. "The chair on which you will sit, the roof above you, all the comfortable surroundings to which you have so amiably alluded, are the direct result of falsifying a trust account. But do I call you 'Mr. Carlyle' in consequence? Certainly not, Louis." "I did not falsify the account," cried Carlyle hotly. He sat down however, and added more quietly: "But why do I tell you all this? I have never spoken of it before." "Blindness invites confidence," replied Carrados. "We are out of the running--human rivalry ceases to exist. Besides, why shouldn't you? In my case the account _was_ falsified." "Of course that's all bunkum, Max" commented Carlyle. "Still, I appreciate your motive." "Practically everything I possess was left to me by an American cousin, on the condition that I took the name of Carrados. He made his fortune by an ingenious conspiracy of doctoring the crop reports and unloading favourably in consequence. And I need hardly remind you that the receiver is equally guilty with the thief." "But twice as safe. I know something of that, Max ... Have you any idea what my business is?" "You shall tell me," replied Carrados. "I run a private inquiry agency. When I lost my profession I had to do something for a living. This occurred. I dropped my name, changed my appearance and opened an office. I knew the legal side down to the ground and I got a retired Scotland Yard man to organize the outside work." "Excellent!" cried Carrados. "Do you unearth many murders?" "No," admitted Mr. Carlyle; "our business lies mostly on the conventional lines among divorce and defalcation." "That's a pity," remarked Carrados. "Do you know, Louis, I always had a secret ambition to be a detective myself. I have even thought lately that I might still be able to do something at it if the chance came my way. That makes you smile?" "Well, certainly, the idea----" "Yes, the idea of a blind detective--the blind tracking the alert--" "Of course, as you say, certain facilities are no doubt quickened," Mr. Carlyle hastened to add considerately, "but, seriously, with the exception of an artist, I don't suppose there is any man who is more utterly dependent on his eyes." Whatever opinion Carrados might have held privately, his genial exterior did not betray a shadow of dissent. For a full minute he continued to smoke as though he derived an actual visual enjoyment from the blue sprays that travelled and dispersed across the room. He had already placed before his visitor a box containing cigars of a brand which that gentleman keenly appreciated but generally regarded as unattainable, and the matter-of-fact ease and certainty with which the blind man had brought the box and put it before him had sent a questioning flicker through Carlyle's mind. "You used to be rather fond of art yourself, Louis," he remarked presently. "Give me your opinion of my latest purchase--the bronze lion on the cabinet there." Then, as Carlyle's gaze went about the room, he added quickly: "No, not that cabinet--the one on your left." Carlyle shot a sharp glance at his host as he got up, but Carrados's expression was merely benignly complacent. Then he strolled across to the figure. "Very nice," he admitted. "Late Flemish, isn't it?" "No, It is a copy of Vidal's 'Roaring Lion.'" "Vidal?" "A French artist." The voice became indescribably flat. "He, also, had the misfortune to be blind, by the way." "You old humbug, Max!" shrieked Carlyle, "you've been thinking that out for the last five minutes." Then the unfortunate man bit his lip and turned his back towards his host. "Do you remember how we used to pile it up on that obtuse ass Sanders, and then roast him?" asked Carrados, ignoring the half-smothered exclamation with which the other man had recalled himself. "Yes," replied Carlyle quietly. "This is very good," he continued, addressing himself to the bronze again. "How ever did he do it?" "With his hands." "Naturally. But, I mean, how did he study his model?" "Also with his hands. He called it 'seeing near.'" "Even with a lion--handled it?" "In such cases he required the services of a keeper, who brought the animal to bay while Vidal exercised his own particular gifts ... You don't feel inclined to put me on the track of a mystery, Louis?" Unable to regard this request as anything but one of old Max's unquenchable pleasantries, Mr. Carlyle was on the point of making a suitable reply when a sudden thought caused him to smile knowingly. Up to that point, he had, indeed, completely forgotten the object of his visit. Now that he remembered the doubtful Dionysius and Baxter's recommendation he immediately assumed that some mistake had been made. Either Max was not the Wynn Carrados he had been seeking or else the dealer had been misinformed; for although his host was wonderfully expert in the face of his misfortune, it was inconceivable that he could decide the genuineness of a coin without seeing it. The opportunity seemed a good one of getting even with Carrados by taking him at his word. "Yes," he accordingly replied, with crisp deliberation, as he re-crossed the room; "yes, I will, Max. Here is the clue to what seems to be a rather remarkable fraud." He put the tetradrachm into his host's hand. "What do you make of it?" For a few seconds Carrados handled the piece with the delicate manipulation of his finger-tips while Carlyle looked on with a self-appreciative grin. Then with equal gravity the blind man weighed the coin in the balance of his hand. Finally he touched it with his tongue. "Well?" demanded the other. "Of course I have not much to go on, and if I was more fully in your confidence I might come to another conclusion----" "Yes, yes," interposed Carlyle, with amused encouragement. "Then I should advise you to arrest the parlourmaid, Nina Brun, communicate with the police authorities of Padua for particulars of the career of Helene Brunesi, and suggest to Lord Seastoke that he should return to London to see what further depredations have been made in his cabinet." Mr. Carlyle's groping hand sought and found a chair, on to which he dropped blankly. His eyes were unable to detach themselves for a single moment from the very ordinary spectacle of Mr. Carrados's mildly benevolent face, while the sterilized ghost of his now forgotten amusement still lingered about his features. "Good heavens!" he managed to articulate, "how do you know?" "Isn't that what you wanted of me?" asked Carrados suavely. "Don't humbug, Max," said Carlyle severely. "This is no joke." An undefined mistrust of his own powers suddenly possessed him in the presence of this mystery. "How do you come to know of Nina Brun and Lord Seastoke?" "You are a detective, Louis," replied Carrados. "How does one know these things? By using one's eyes and putting two and two together." Carlyle groaned and flung out an arm petulantly. "Is it all bunkum, Max? Do you really see all the time--though that doesn't go very far towards explaining it." "Like Vidal, I see very well--at close quarters," replied Carrados, lightly running a forefinger along the inscription on the tetradrachm. "For longer range I keep another pair of eyes. Would you like to test them?" Mr. Carlyle's assent was not very gracious; it was, in fact, faintly sulky. He was suffering the annoyance of feeling distinctly unimpressive in his own department; but he was also curious. "The bell is just behind you, if you don't mind," said his host. "Parkinson will appear. You might take note of him while he is in." The man who had admitted Mr. Carlyle proved to be Parkinson. "This gentleman is Mr. Carlyle, Parkinson," explained Carrados the moment the man entered. "You will remember him for the future?" Parkinson's apologetic eye swept the visitor from head to foot, but so lightly and swiftly that it conveyed to that gentleman the comparison of being very deftly dusted. "I will endeavour to do so, sir," replied Parkinson, turning again to his master. "I shall be at home to Mr. Carlyle whenever he calls. That is all." "Very well, sir." "Now, Louis," remarked Mr. Carrados briskly, when the door had closed again, "you have had a good opportunity of studying Parkinson. What is he like?" "In what way?" "I mean as a matter of description. I am a blind man--I haven't seen my servant for twelve years--what idea can you give me of him? I asked you to notice." "I know you did, but your Parkinson is the sort of man who has very little about him to describe. He is the embodiment of the ordinary. His height is about average----" "Five feet nine," murmured Carrados. "Slightly above the mean." "Scarcely noticeably so. Clean-shaven. Medium brown hair. No particularly marked features. Dark eyes. Good teeth." "False," interposed Carrados. "The teeth--not the statement." "Possibly," admitted Mr. Carlyle. "I am not a dental expert and I had no opportunity of examining Mr. Parkinson's mouth in detail. But what is the drift of all this?" "His clothes?" "Oh, just the ordinary evening dress of a valet. There is not much room for variety in that." "You noticed, in fact, nothing special by which Parkinson could be identified?" "Well, he wore an unusually broad gold ring on the little finger of the left hand." "But that is removable. And yet Parkinson has an ineradicable mole--a small one, I admit--on his chin. And you a human sleuth-hound. Oh, Louis!" "At all events," retorted Carlyle, writhing a little under this good-humoured satire, although it was easy enough to see in it Carrados's affectionate intention--"at all events, I dare say I can give as good a description of Parkinson as he can give of me." "That is what we are going to test. Ring the bell again." "Seriously?" "Quite. I am trying my eyes against yours. If I can't give you fifty out of a hundred I'll renounce my private detectorial ambition for ever." "It isn't quite the same," objected Carlyle, but he rang the bell. "Come in and close the door, Parkinson," said Carrados when the man appeared. "Don't look at Mr. Carlyle again--in fact, you had better stand with your back towards him, he won't mind. Now describe to me his appearance as you observed it." Parkinson tendered his respectful apologies to Mr. Carlyle for the liberty he was compelled to take, by the deferential quality of his voice. "Mr. Carlyle, sir, wears patent leather boots of about size seven and very little used. There are five buttons, but on the left boot one button--the third up--is missing, leaving loose threads and not the more usual metal fastener. Mr. Carlyle's trousers, sir, are of a dark material, a dark grey line of about a quarter of an inch width on a darker ground. The bottoms are turned permanently up and are, just now, a little muddy, if I may say so." "Very muddy," interposed Mr. Carlyle generously. "It is a wet night, Parkinson." "Yes, sir; very unpleasant weather. If you will allow me, sir, I will brush you in the hall. The mud is dry now, I notice. Then, sir," continued Parkinson, reverting to the business in hand, "there are dark green cashmere hose. A curb-pattern key-chain passes into the left-hand trouser pocket." From the visitor's nether garments the photographic-eyed Parkinson proceeded to higher ground, and with increasing wonder Mr. Carlyle listened to the faithful catalogue of his possessions. His fetter-and-link albert of gold and platinum was minutely described. His spotted blue ascot, with its gentlemanly pearl scarfpin, was set forth, and the fact that the buttonhole in the left lapel of his morning coat showed signs of use was duly noted. What Parkinson saw he recorded, but he made no deductions. A handkerchief carried in the cuff of the right sleeve was simply that to him and not an indication that Mr. Carlyle was, indeed, left-handed. But a more delicate part of Parkinson's undertaking remained. He approached it with a double cough. "As regards Mr. Carlyle's personal appearance, sir--" "No, enough!" cried the gentleman concerned hastily. "I am more than satisfied. You are a keen observer, Parkinson." "I have trained myself to suit my master's requirements, sir," replied the man. He looked towards Mr. Carrados, received a nod and withdrew. Mr. Carlyle was the first to speak. "That man of yours would be worth five pounds a week to me, Max," he remarked thoughtfully. "But, of course--" "I don't think that he would take it," replied Carrados, in a voice of equally detached speculation. "He suits me very well. But you have the chance of using his services--indirectly." "You still mean that--seriously?" "I notice in you a chronic disinclination to take me seriously, Louis. It is really--to an Englishman--almost painful. Is there something inherently comic about me or the atmosphere of The Turrets?" "No, my friend," replied Mr. Carlyle, "but there is something essentially prosperous. That is what points to the improbable. Now what is it?" "It might be merely a whim, but it is more than that," replied Carrados. "It is, well, partly vanity, partly _ennui_, partly"--certainly there was something more nearly tragic in his voice than comic now--"partly hope." Mr. Carlyle was too tactful to pursue the subject. "Those are three tolerable motives," he acquiesced. "I'll do anything you want, Max, on one condition." "Agreed. And it is?" "That you tell me how you knew so much of this affair." He tapped the silver coin which lay on the table near them. "I am not easily flabbergasted," he added. "You won't believe that there is nothing to explain--that it was purely second-sight?" "No," replied Carlyle tersely: "I won't." "You are quite right. And yet the thing is very simple." "They always are--when you know," soliloquised the other. "That's what makes them so confoundedly difficult when you don't." "Here is this one then. In Padua, which seems to be regaining its old reputation as the birthplace of spurious antiques, by the way, there lives an ingenious craftsman named Pietro Stelli. This simple soul, who possesses a talent not inferior to that of Cavino at his best, has for many years turned his hand to the not unprofitable occupation of forging rare Greek and Roman coins. As a collector and student of certain Greek colonials and a specialist in forgeries I have been familiar with Stelli's workmanship for years. Latterly he seems to have come under the influence of an international crook called--at the moment--Dompierre, who soon saw a way of utilizing Stelli's genius on a royal scale. Helene Brunesi, who in private life is--and really is, I believe--Madame Dompierre, readily lent her services to the enterprise." "Quite so," nodded Mr. Carlyle, as his host paused. "You see the whole sequence, of course?" "Not exactly--not in detail," confessed Mr. Carlyle. "Dompierre's idea was to gain access to some of the most celebrated cabinets of Europe and substitute Stelli's fabrications for the genuine coins. The princely collection of rarities that he would thus amass might be difficult to dispose of safely, but I have no doubt that he had matured his plans. Helene, in the person of Nina Brun, an Anglicised French parlourmaid--a part which she fills to perfection--was to obtain wax impressions of the most valuable pieces and to make the exchange when the counterfeits reached her. In this way it was obviously hoped that the fraud would not come to light until long after the real coins had been sold, and I gather that she has already done her work successfully in general houses. Then, impressed by her excellent references and capable manner, my housekeeper engaged her, and for a few weeks she went about her duties here. It was fatal to this detail of the scheme, however, that I have the misfortune to be blind. I am told that Helene has so innocently angelic a face as to disarm suspicion, but I was incapable of being impressed and that good material was thrown away. But one morning my material fingers--which, of course, knew nothing of Helene's angelic face--discovered an unfamiliar touch about the surface of my favourite Euclideas, and, although there was doubtless nothing to be seen, my critical sense of smell reported that wax had been recently pressed against it. I began to make discreet inquiries and in the meantime my cabinets went to the local bank for safety. Helene countered by receiving a telegram from Angiers, calling her to the death-bed of her aged mother. The aged mother succumbed; duty compelled Helene to remain at the side of her stricken patriarchal father, and doubtless The Turrets was written off the syndicate's operations as a bad debt." "Very interesting," admitted Mr. Carlyle; "but at the risk of seeming obtuse"--his manner had become delicately chastened--"I must say that I fail to trace the inevitable connexion between Nina Brun and this particular forgery--assuming that it is a forgery." "Set your mind at rest about that, Louis," replied Carrados. "It is a forgery, and it is a forgery that none but Pietro Stelli could have achieved. That is the essential connexion. Of course, there are accessories. A private detective coming urgently to see me with a notable tetradrachm in his pocket, which he announces to be the clue to a remarkable fraud--well, really, Louis, one scarcely needs to be blind to see through that." "And Lord Seastoke? I suppose you happened to discover that Nina Brun had gone there?" "No, I cannot claim to have discovered that, or I should certainly have warned him at once when I found out--only recently--about the gang. As a matter of fact, the last information I had of Lord Seastoke was a line in yesterday's _Morning Post_ to the effect that he was still at Cairo. But many of these pieces--" He brushed his finger almost lovingly across the vivid chariot race that embellished the reverse of the coin, and broke off to remark: "You really ought to take up the subject, Louis. You have no idea how useful it might prove to you some day." "I really think I must," replied Carlyle grimly. "Two hundred and fifty pounds the original of this cost, I believe." "Cheap, too; it would make five hundred pounds in New York to-day. As I was saying, many are literally unique. This gem by Kimon is--here is his signature, you see; Peter is particularly good at lettering--and as I handled the genuine tetradrachm about two years ago, when Lord Seastoke exhibited it at a meeting of our society in Albemarle Street, there is nothing at all wonderful in my being able to fix the locale of your mystery. Indeed, I feel that I ought to apologize for it all being so simple." "I think," remarked Mr. Carlyle, critically examining the loose threads on his left boot, "that the apology on that head would be more appropriate from me." THE KNIGHT'S CROSS SIGNAL PROBLEM "Louis," exclaimed Mr. Carrados, with the air of genial gaiety that Carlyle had found so incongruous to his conception of a blind man, "you have a mystery somewhere about you! I know it by your step." Nearly a month had passed since the incident of the false Dionysius had led to the two men meeting. It was now December. Whatever Mr. Carlyle's step might indicate to the inner eye it betokened to the casual observer the manner of a crisp, alert, self-possessed man of business. Carlyle, in truth, betrayed nothing of the pessimism and despondency that had marked him on the earlier occasion. "You have only yourself to thank that it is a very poor one," he retorted. "If you hadn't held me to a hasty promise----" "To give me an option on the next case that baffled you, no matter what it was----" "Just so. The consequence is that you get a very unsatisfactory affair that has no special interest to an amateur and is only baffling because it is--well----" "Well, baffling?" "Exactly, Max. Your would-be jest has discovered the proverbial truth. I need hardly tell you that it is only the insoluble that is finally baffling and this is very probably insoluble. You remember the awful smash on the Central and Suburban at Knight's Cross Station a few weeks ago?" "Yes," replied Carrados, with interest. "I read the whole ghastly details at the time." "You read?" exclaimed his friend suspiciously. "I still use the familiar phrases," explained Carrados, with a smile. "As a matter of fact, my secretary reads to me. I mark what I want to hear and when he comes at ten o'clock we clear off the morning papers in no time." "And how do you know what to mark?" demanded Mr. Carlyle cunningly. Carrados's right hand, lying idly on the table, moved to a newspaper near. He ran his finger along a column heading, his eyes still turned towards his visitor. "'The Money Market. Continued from page 2. British Railways,'" he announced. "Extraordinary," murmured Carlyle. "Not very," said Carrados. "If someone dipped a stick in treacle and wrote 'Rats' across a marble slab you would probably be able to distinguish what was there, blindfold." "Probably," admitted Mr. Carlyle. "At all events we will not test the experiment." "The difference to you of treacle on a marble background is scarcely greater than that of printers' ink on newspaper to me. But anything smaller than pica I do not read with comfort, and below long primer I cannot read at all. Hence the secretary. Now the accident, Louis." "The accident: well, you remember all about that. An ordinary Central and Suburban passenger train, non-stop at Knight's Cross, ran past the signal and crashed into a crowded electric train that was just beginning to move out. It was like sending a garden roller down a row of handlights. Two carriages of the electric train were flattened out of existence; the next two were broken up. For the first time on an English railway there was a good stand-up smash between a heavy steam-engine and a train of light cars, and it was 'bad for the coo.'" "Twenty-seven killed, forty something injured, eight died since," commented Carrados. "That was bad for the Co.," said Carlyle. "Well, the main fact was plain enough. The heavy train was in the wrong. But was the engine-driver responsible? He claimed, and he claimed vehemently from the first, and he never varied one iota, that he had a 'clear' signal--that is to say, the green light, it being dark. The signalman concerned was equally dogged that he never pulled off the signal--that it was at 'danger' when the accident happened and that it had been for five minutes before. Obviously, they could not both be right." "Why, Louis?" asked Mr. Carrados smoothly. "The signal must either have been up or down--red or green." "Did you ever notice the signals on the Great Northern Railway, Louis?" "Not particularly, Why?" "One winterly day, about the year when you and I were concerned in being born, the engine-driver of a Scotch express received the 'clear' from a signal near a little Huntingdon station called Abbots Ripton. He went on and crashed into a goods train and into the thick of the smash a down express mowed its way. Thirteen killed and the usual tale of injured. He was positive that the signal gave him a 'clear'; the signalman was equally confident that he had never pulled it off the 'danger.' Both were right, and yet the signal was in working order. As I said, it was a winterly day; it had been snowing hard and the snow froze and accumulated on the upper edge of the signal arm until its weight bore it down. That is a fact that no fiction writer dare have invented, but to this day every signal on the Great Northern pivots from the centre of the arm instead of from the end, in memory of that snowstorm." "That came out at the inquest, I presume?" said Mr. Carlyle. "We have had the Board of Trade inquiry and the inquest here and no explanation is forthcoming. Everything was in perfect order. It rests between the word of the signalman and the word of the engine-driver--not a jot of direct evidence either way. Which is right?" "That is what you are going to find out, Louis?" suggested Carrados. "It is what I am being paid for finding out," admitted Mr. Carlyle frankly. "But so far we are just where the inquest left it, and, between ourselves, I candidly can't see an inch in front of my face in the matter." "Nor can I," said the blind man, with a rather wry smile. "Never mind. The engine-driver is your client, of course?" "Yes," admitted Carlyle. "But how the deuce did you know?" "Let us say that your sympathies are enlisted on his behalf. The jury were inclined to exonerate the signalman, weren't they? What has the company done with your man?" "Both are suspended. Hutchins, the driver, hears that he may probably be given charge of a lavatory at one of the stations. He is a decent, bluff, short-spoken old chap, with his heart in his work. Just now you'll find him at his worst--bitter and suspicious. The thought of swabbing down a lavatory and taking pennies all day is poisoning him." "Naturally. Well, there we have honest Hutchins: taciturn, a little touchy perhaps, grown grey in the service of the company, and manifesting quite a bulldog-like devotion to his favourite 538." "Why, that actually was the number of his engine--how do you know it?" demanded Carlyle sharply. "It was mentioned two or three times at the inquest, Louis," replied Carrados mildly. "And you remembered--with no reason to?" "You can generally trust a blind man's memory, especially if he has taken the trouble to develop it." "Then you will remember that Hutchins did not make a very good impression at the time. He was surly and irritable under the ordeal. I want you to see the case from all sides." "He called the signalman--Mead--a 'lying young dog,' across the room, I believe. Now, Mead, what is he like? You have seen him, of course?" "Yes. He does not impress me favourably. He is glib, ingratiating, and distinctly 'greasy.' He has a ready answer for everything almost before the question is out of your mouth. He has thought of everything." "And now you are going to tell me something, Louis," said Carrados encouragingly. Mr. Carlyle laughed a little to cover an involuntary movement of surprise. "There is a suggestive line that was not touched at the inquiries," he admitted. "Hutchins has been a saving man all his life, and he has received good wages. Among his class he is regarded as wealthy. I daresay that he has five hundred pounds in the bank. He is a widower with one daughter, a very nice-mannered girl of about twenty. Mead is a young man, and he and the girl are sweethearts--have been informally engaged for some time. But old Hutchins would not hear of it; he seems to have taken a dislike to the signalman from the first, and latterly he had forbidden him to come to his house or his daughter to speak to him." "Excellent, Louis," cried Carrados in great delight. "We shall clear your man in a blaze of red and green lights yet and hang the glib, 'greasy' signalman from his own signal-post." "It is a significant fact, seriously?" "It is absolutely convincing." "It may have been a slip, a mental lapse on Mead's part which he discovered the moment it was too late, and then, being too cowardly to admit his fault, and having so much at stake, he took care to make detection impossible. It may have been that, but my idea is rather that probably it was neither quite pure accident nor pure design. I can imagine Mead meanly pluming himself over the fact that the life of this man who stands in his way, and whom he must cordially dislike, lies in his power. I can imagine the idea becoming an obsession as he dwells on it. A dozen times with his hand on the lever he lets his mind explore the possibilities of a moment's defection. Then one day he pulls the signal off in sheer bravado--and hastily puts it at danger again. He may have done it once or he may have done it oftener before he was caught in a fatal moment of irresolution. The chances are about even that the engine-driver would be killed. In any case he would be disgraced, for it is easier on the face of it to believe that a man might run past a danger signal in absentmindedness, without noticing it, than that a man should pull off a signal and replace it without being conscious of his actions." "The fireman was killed. Does your theory involve the certainty of the fireman being killed, Louis?" "No," said Carlyle. "The fireman is a difficulty, but looking at it from Mead's point of view--whether he has been guilty of an error or a crime--it resolves itself into this: First, the fireman may be killed. Second, he may not notice the signal at all. Third, in any case he will loyally corroborate his driver and the good old jury will discount that." Carrados smoked thoughtfully, his open, sightless eyes merely appearing to be set in a tranquil gaze across the room. "It would not be an improbable explanation," he said presently. "Ninety-nine men out of a hundred would say: 'People do not do these things.' But you and I, who have in our different ways studied criminology, know that they sometimes do, or else there would be no curious crimes. What have you done on that line?" To anyone who could see, Mr. Carlyle's expression conveyed an answer. "You are behind the scenes, Max. What was there for me to do? Still I must do something for my money. Well, I have had a very close inquiry made confidentially among the men. There might be a whisper of one of them knowing more than had come out--a man restrained by friendship, or enmity, or even grade jealousy. Nothing came of that. Then there was the remote chance that some private person had noticed the signal without attaching any importance to it then, one who would be able to identify it still by something associated with the time. I went over the line myself. Opposite the signal the line on one side is shut in by a high blank wall; on the other side are houses, but coming below the butt-end of a scullery the signal does not happen to be visible from any road or from any window." "My poor Louis!" said Carrados, in friendly ridicule. "You were at the end of your tether?" "I was," admitted Carlyle. "And now that you know the sort of job it is I don't suppose that you are keen on wasting your time over it." "That would hardly be fair, would it?" said Carrados reasonably. "No, Louis, I will take over your honest old driver and your greasy young signalman and your fatal signal that cannot be seen from anywhere." "But it is an important point for you to remember, Max, that although the signal cannot be seen from the box, if the mechanism had gone wrong, or anyone tampered with the arm, the automatic indicator would at once have told Mead that the green light was showing. Oh, I have gone very thoroughly into the technical points, I assure you." "I must do so too," commented Mr. Carrados gravely. "For that matter, if there is anything you want to know, I dare say that I can tell you," suggested his visitor. "It might save your time." "True," acquiesced Carrados. "I should like to know whether anyone belonging to the houses that bound the line there came of age or got married on the twenty-sixth of November." Mr. Carlyle looked across curiously at his host. "I really do not know, Max," he replied, in his crisp, precise way. "What on earth has that got to do with it, may I inquire?" "The only explanation of the Pont St. Lin swing-bridge disaster of '75 was the reflection of a green bengal light on a cottage window." Mr. Carlyle smiled his indulgence privately. "My dear chap, you mustn't let your retentive memory of obscure happenings run away with you," he remarked wisely. "In nine cases out of ten the obvious explanation is the true one. The difficulty, as here, lies in proving it. Now, you would like to see these men?" "I expect so; in any case, I will see Hutchins first." "Both live in Holloway. Shall I ask Hutchins to come here to see you--say to-morrow? He is doing nothing." "No," replied Carrados. "To-morrow I must call on my brokers and my time may be filled up." "Quite right; you mustn't neglect your own affairs for this--experiment," assented Carlyle. "Besides, I should prefer to drop in on Hutchins at his own home. Now, Louis, enough of the honest old man for one night. I have a lovely thing by Eumenes that I want to show you. To-day is--Tuesday. Come to dinner on Sunday and pour the vials of your ridicule on my want of success." "That's an amiable way of putting it," replied Carlyle. "All right, I will." Two hours later Carrados was again in his study, apparently, for a wonder, sitting idle. Sometimes he smiled to himself, and once or twice he laughed a little, but for the most part his pleasant, impassive face reflected no emotion and he sat with his useless eyes tranquilly fixed on an unseen distance. It was a fantastic caprice of the man to mock his sightlessness by a parade of light, and under the soft brilliance of a dozen electric brackets the room was as bright as day. At length he stood up and rang the bell. "I suppose Mr. Greatorex isn't still here by any chance, Parkinson?" he asked, referring to his secretary. "I think not, sir, but I will ascertain," replied the man. "Never mind. Go to his room and bring me the last two files of _The Times_. Now"--when he returned--"turn to the earliest you have there. The date?" "November the second." "That will do. Find the Money Market; it will be in the Supplement. Now look down the columns until you come to British Railways." "I have it, sir." "Central and Suburban. Read the closing price and the change." "Central and Suburban Ordinary, 66-1/2-67-1/2, fall 1/8. Preferred Ordinary, 81-81-1/2, no change. Deferred Ordinary, 27-1/2-27-3/4, fall 1/4. That is all, sir." "Now take a paper about a week on. Read the Deferred only." "27-27-1/4, no change." "Another week." "29-1/2-30, rise 5/8." "Another." "31-1/2-32-1/2, rise 1." "Very good. Now on Tuesday the twenty-seventh November." "31-7/8-32-3/4, rise 1/2." "Yes. The next day." "24-1/2-23-1/2, fall 9." "Quite so, Parkinson. There had been an accident, you see." "Yes, sir. Very unpleasant accident. Jane knows a person whose sister's young man has a cousin who had his arm torn off in it--torn off at the socket, she says, sir. It seems to bring it home to one, sir." "That is all. Stay--in the paper you have, look down the first money column and see if there is any reference to the Central and Suburban." "Yes, sir. 'City and Suburbans, which after their late depression on the projected extension of the motor bus service, had been steadily creeping up on the abandonment of the scheme, and as a result of their own excellent traffic returns, suffered a heavy slump through the lamentable accident of Thursday night. The Deferred in particular at one time fell eleven points as it was felt that the possible dividend, with which rumour has of late been busy, was now out of the question.'" "Yes; that is all. Now you can take the papers back. And let it be a warning to you, Parkinson, not to invest your savings in speculative railway deferreds." "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir, I will endeavour to remember." He lingered for a moment as he shook the file of papers level. "I may say, sir, that I have my eye on a small block of cottage property at Acton. But even cottage property scarcely seems safe from legislative depredation now, sir." The next day Mr. Carrados called on his brokers in the city. It is to be presumed that he got through his private business quicker than he expected, for after leaving Austin Friars he continued his journey to Holloway, where he found Hutchins at home and sitting morosely before his kitchen fire. Rightly assuming that his luxuriant car would involve him in a certain amount of public attention in Klondyke Street, the blind man dismissed it some distance from the house, and walked the rest of the way, guided by the almost imperceptible touch of Parkinson's arm. "Here is a gentleman to see you, father," explained Miss Hutchins, who had come to the door. She divined the relative positions of the two visitors at a glance. "Then why don't you take him into the parlour?" grumbled the ex-driver. His face was a testimonial of hard work and general sobriety but at the moment one might hazard from his voice and manner that he had been drinking earlier in the day. "I don't think that the gentleman would be impressed by the difference between our parlour and our kitchen," replied the girl quaintly, "and it is warmer here." "What's the matter with the parlour now?" demanded her father sourly. "It was good enough for your mother and me. It used to be good enough for you." "There is nothing the matter with it, nor with the kitchen either." She turned impassively to the two who had followed her along the narrow passage. "Will you go in, sir?" "I don't want to see no gentleman," cried Hutchins noisily. "Unless"--his manner suddenly changed to one of pitiable anxiety--"unless you're from the Company sir, to--to--" "No; I have come on Mr. Carlyle's behalf," replied Carrados, walking to a chair as though he moved by a kind of instinct. Hutchins laughed his wry contempt. "Mr. Carlyle!" he reiterated; "Mr. Carlyle! Fat lot of good he's been. Why don't he _do_ something for his money?" "He has," replied Carrados, with imperturbable good-humour; "he has sent me. Now, I want to ask you a few questions." "A few questions!" roared the irate man. "Why, blast it, I have done nothing else but answer questions for a month. I didn't pay Mr. Carlyle to ask me questions; I can get enough of that for nixes. Why don't you go and ask Mr. Herbert Ananias Mead your few questions--then you might find out something." There was a slight movement by the door and Carrados knew that the girl had quietly left the room. "You saw that, sir?" demanded the father, diverted to a new line of bitterness. "You saw that girl--my own daughter, that I've worked for all her life?" "No," replied Carrados. "The girl that's just gone out--she's my daughter," explained Hutchins. "I know, but I did not see her. I see nothing. I am blind." "Blind!" exclaimed the old fellow, sitting up in startled wonderment. "You mean it, sir? You walk all right and you look at me as if you saw me. You're kidding surely." "No," smiled Carrados. "It's quite right." "Then it's a funny business, sir--you what are blind expecting to find something that those with their eyes couldn't," ruminated Hutchins sagely. "There are things that you can't see with your eyes, Hutchins." "Perhaps you are right, sir. Well, what is it you want to know?" "Light a cigar first," said the blind man, holding out his case and waiting until the various sounds told him that his host was smoking contentedly. "The train you were driving at the time of the accident was the six-twenty-seven from Notcliff. It stopped everywhere until it reached Lambeth Bridge, the chief London station on your line. There it became something of an express, and leaving Lambeth Bridge at seven-eleven, should not stop again until it fetched Swanstead on Thames, eleven miles out, at seven-thirty-four. Then it stopped on and off from Swanstead to Ingerfield, the terminus of that branch, which it reached at eight-five." Hutchins nodded, and then, remembering, said: "That's right, sir." "That was your business all day--running between Notcliff and Ingerfield?" "Yes, sir. Three journeys up and three down mostly." "With the same stops on all the down journeys?" "No. The seven-eleven is the only one that does a run from the Bridge to Swanstead. You see, it is just on the close of the evening rush, as they call it. A good many late business gentlemen living at Swanstead use the seven-eleven regular. The other journeys we stop at every station to Lambeth Bridge, and then here and there beyond." "There are, of course, other trains doing exactly the same journey--a service, in fact?" "Yes, sir. About six." "And do any of those--say, during the rush--do any of those run non-stop from Lambeth to Swanstead?" Hutchins reflected a moment. All the choler and restlessness had melted out of the man's face. He was again the excellent artisan, slow but capable and self-reliant. "That I couldn't definitely say, sir. Very few short-distance trains pass the junction, but some of those may. A guide would show us in a minute but I haven't got one." "Never mind. You said at the inquest that it was no uncommon thing for you to be pulled up at the 'stop' signal east of Knight's Cross Station. How often would that happen--only with the seven-eleven, mind." "Perhaps three times a week; perhaps twice." "The accident was on a Thursday. Have you noticed that you were pulled up oftener on a Thursday than on any other day?" A smile crossed the driver's face at the question. "You don't happen to live at Swanstead yourself, sir?" he asked in reply. "No," admitted Carrados. "Why?" "Well, sir, we were _always_ pulled up on Thursday; practically always, you may say. It got to be quite a saying among those who used the train regular; they used to look out for it." Carrados's sightless eyes had the one quality of concealing emotion supremely. "Oh," he commented softly, "always; and it was quite a saying, was it? And _why_ was it always so on Thursday?" "It had to do with the early closing, I'm told. The suburban traffic was a bit different. By rights we ought to have been set back two minutes for that day, but I suppose it wasn't thought worth while to alter us in the time-table so we most always had to wait outside Three Deep tunnel for a west-bound electric to make good." "You were prepared for it then?" "Yes, sir, I was," said Hutchins, reddening at some recollection, "and very down about it was one of the jury over that. But, mayhap once in three months, I did get through even on a Thursday, and it's not for me to question whether things are right or wrong just because they are not what I may expect. The signals are my orders, sir--stop! go on! and it's for me to obey, as you would a general on the field of battle. What would happen otherwise! It was nonsense what they said about going cautious; and the man who stated it was a barber who didn't know the difference between a 'distance' and a 'stop' signal down to the minute they gave their verdict. My orders, sir, given me by that signal, was 'Go right ahead and keep to your running time!'" Carrados nodded a soothing assent. "That is all, I think," he remarked. "All!" exclaimed Hutchins in surprise. "Why, sir, you can't have got much idea of it yet." "Quite enough. And I know it isn't pleasant for you to be taken along the same ground over and over again." The man moved awkwardly in his chair and pulled nervously at his grizzled beard. "You mustn't take any notice of what I said just now, sir," he apologized. "You somehow make me feel that something may come of it; but I've been badgered about and accused and cross-examined from one to another of them these weeks till it's fairly made me bitter against everything. And now they talk of putting me in a lavatory--me that has been with the company for five and forty years and on the foot-plate thirty-two--a man suspected of running past a danger signal." "You have had a rough time, Hutchins; you will have to exercise your patience a little longer yet," said Carrados sympathetically. "You think something may come of it, sir? You think you will be able to clear me? Believe me, sir, if you could give me something to look forward to it might save me from--" He pulled himself up and shook his head sorrowfully. "I've been near it," he added simply. Carrados reflected and took his resolution. "To-day is Wednesday. I think you may hope to hear something from your general manager towards the middle of next week." "Good God, sir! You really mean that?" "In the interval show your good sense by behaving reasonably. Keep civilly to yourself and don't talk. Above all"--he nodded towards a quart jug that stood on the table between them, an incident that filled the simple-minded engineer with boundless wonder when he recalled it afterwards--"above all, leave that alone." Hutchins snatched up the vessel and brought it crashing down on the hearthstone, his face shining with a set resolution. "I've done with it, sir. It was the bitterness and despair that drove me to that. Now I can do without it." The door was hastily opened and Miss Hutchins looked anxiously from her father to the visitors and back again. "Oh, whatever is the matter?" she exclaimed. "I heard a great crash." "This gentleman is going to clear me, Meg, my dear," blurted out the old man irrepressibly. "And I've done with the drink for ever." "Hutchins! Hutchins!" said Carrados warningly. "My daughter, sir; you wouldn't have her not know?" pleaded Hutchins, rather crest-fallen. "It won't go any further." Carrados laughed quietly to himself as he felt Margaret Hutchins's startled and questioning eyes attempting to read his mind. He shook hands with the engine-driver without further comment, however, and walked out into the commonplace little street under Parkinson's unobtrusive guidance. "Very nice of Miss Hutchins to go into half-mourning, Parkinson," he remarked as they went along. "Thoughtful, and yet not ostentatious." "Yes, sir," agreed Parkinson, who had long ceased to wonder at his master's perceptions. "The Romans, Parkinson, had a saying to the effect that gold carries no smell. That is a pity sometimes. What jewellery did Miss Hutchins wear?" "Very little, sir. A plain gold brooch representing a merry-thought--the merry-thought of a sparrow, I should say, sir. The only other article was a smooth-backed gun-metal watch, suspended from a gun-metal bow." "Nothing showy or expensive, eh?" "Oh dear no, sir. Quite appropriate for a young person of her position." "Just what I should have expected." He slackened his pace. "We are passing a hoarding, are we not?" "Yes, sir." "We will stand here a moment. Read me the letterpress of the poster before us." "This 'Oxo' one, sir?" "Yes." "'Oxo,' sir." Carrados was convulsed with silent laughter. Parkinson had infinitely more dignity and conceded merely a tolerant recognition of the ludicrous. "That was a bad shot, Parkinson," remarked his master when he could speak. "We will try another." For three minutes, with scrupulous conscientiousness on the part of the reader and every appearance of keen interest on the part of the hearer, there were set forth the particulars of a sale by auction of superfluous timber and builders' material. "That will do," said Carrados, when the last detail had been reached. "We can be seen from the door of No. 107 still?" "Yes, sir." "No indication of anyone coming to us from there?" "No, sir." Carrados walked thoughtfully on again. In the Holloway Road they rejoined the waiting motor-car. "Lambeth Bridge Station" was the order the driver received. From the station the car was sent on home and Parkinson was instructed to take two first-class singles for Richmond, which could be reached by changing at Stafford Road. The "evening rush" had not yet commenced and they had no difficulty in finding an empty carriage when the train came in. Parkinson was kept busy that journey describing what he saw at various points between Lambeth Bridge and Knight's Cross. For a quarter of a mile Carrados's demands on the eyes and the memory of his remarkable servant were wide and incessant. Then his questions ceased. They had passed the "stop" signal, east of Knight's Cross Station. The following afternoon they made the return journey as far as Knight's Cross. This time, however, the surroundings failed to interest Carrados. "We are going to look at some rooms," was the information he offered on the subject, and an imperturbable "Yes, sir" had been the extent of Parkinson's comment on the unusual proceeding. After leaving the station they turned sharply along a road that ran parallel with the line, a dull thoroughfare of substantial, elderly houses that were beginning to sink into decrepitude. Here and there a corner residence displayed the brass plate of a professional occupant, but for the most part they were given up to the various branches of second-rate apartment letting. "The third house after the one with the flagstaff," said Carrados. Parkinson rang the bell, which was answered by a young servant, who took an early opportunity of assuring them that she was not tidy as it was rather early in the afternoon. She informed Carrados, in reply to his inquiry, that Miss Chubb was at home, and showed them into a melancholy little sitting-room to await her appearance. "I shall be 'almost' blind here, Parkinson," remarked Carrados, walking about the room. "It saves explanation." "Very good, sir," replied Parkinson. Five minutes later, an interval suggesting that Miss Chubb also found it rather early in the afternoon, Carrados was arranging to take rooms for his attendant and himself for the short time that he would be in London, seeing an oculist. "One bedroom, mine, must face north," he stipulated. "It has to do with the light." Miss Chubb replied that she quite understood. Some gentlemen, she added, had their requirements, others their fancies. She endeavoured to suit all. The bedroom she had in view from the first _did_ face north. She would not have known, only the last gentleman, curiously enough, had made the same request. "A sufferer like myself?" inquired Carrados affably. Miss Chubb did not think so. In his case she regarded it merely as a fancy. He had said that he could not sleep on any other side. She had had to turn out of her own room to accommodate him, but if one kept an apartment-house one had to be adaptable; and Mr. Ghoosh was certainly very liberal in his ideas. "Ghoosh? An Indian gentleman, I presume?" hazarded Carrados. It appeared that Mr. Ghoosh was an Indian. Miss Chubb confided that at first she had been rather perturbed at the idea of taking in "a black man," as she confessed to regarding him. She reiterated, however, that Mr. Ghoosh proved to be "quite the gentleman." Five minutes of affability put Carrados in full possession of Mr. Ghoosh's manner of life and movements--the dates of his arrival and departure, his solitariness and his daily habits. "This would be the best bedroom," said Miss Chubb. It was a fair-sized room on the first floor. The window looked out on to the roof of an outbuilding; beyond, the deep cutting of the railway line. Opposite stood the dead wall that Mr. Carlyle had spoken of. Carrados "looked" round the room with the discriminating glance that sometimes proved so embarrassing to those who knew him. "I have to take a little daily exercise," he remarked, walking to the window and running his hand up the woodwork. "You will not mind my fixing a 'developer' here, Miss Chubb--a few small screws?" Miss Chubb thought not. Then she was sure not. Finally she ridiculed the idea of minding with scorn. "If there is width enough," mused Carrados, spanning the upright critically. "Do you happen to have a wooden foot-rule convenient?" "Well, to be sure!" exclaimed Miss Chubb, opening a rapid succession of drawers until she produced the required article. "When we did out this room after Mr. Ghoosh, there was this very ruler among the things that he hadn't thought worth taking. This is what you require, sir?" "Yes," replied Carrados, accepting it, "I think this is exactly what I require." It was a common new white-wood rule, such as one might buy at any small stationer's for a penny. He carelessly took off the width of the upright, reading the figures with a touch; and then continued to run a finger-tip delicately up and down the edges of the instrument. "Four and seven-eighths," was his unspoken conclusion. "I hope it will do sir." "Admirably," replied Carrados. "But I haven't reached the end of my requirements yet, Miss Chubb." "No, sir?" said the landlady, feeling that it would be a pleasure to oblige so agreeable a gentleman, "what else might there be?" "Although I can see very little I like to have a light, but not any kind of light. Gas I cannot do with. Do you think that you would be able to find me an oil lamp?" "Certainly, sir. I got out a very nice brass lamp that I have specially for Mr. Ghoosh. He read a good deal of an evening and he preferred a lamp." "That is very convenient. I suppose it is large enough to burn for a whole evening?" "Yes, indeed. And very particular he was always to have it filled every day." "A lamp without oil is not very useful," smiled Carrados, following her towards another room, and absent-mindedly slipping the foot-rule into his pocket. Whatever Parkinson thought of the arrangement of going into second-rate apartments in an obscure street it is to be inferred that his devotion to his master was sufficient to overcome his private emotions as a self-respecting "man." At all events, as they were approaching the station he asked, and without a trace of feeling, whether there were any orders for him with reference to the proposed migration. "None, Parkinson," replied his master. "We must be satisfied with our present quarters." "I beg your pardon, sir," said Parkinson, with some constraint. "I understand that you had taken the rooms for a week certain." "I am afraid that Miss Chubb will be under the same impression. Unforeseen circumstances will prevent our going, however. Mr. Greatorex must write to-morrow, enclosing a cheque, with my regrets, and adding a penny for this ruler which I seem to have brought away with me. It, at least, is something for the money." Parkinson may be excused for not attempting to understand the course of events. "Here is your train coming in, sir," he merely said. "We will let it go and wait for another. Is there a signal at either end of the platform?" "Yes, sir; at the further end." "Let us walk towards it. Are there any of the porters or officials about here?" "No, sir; none." "Take this ruler. I want you to go up the steps--there are steps up the signal, by the way?" "Yes, sir." "I want you to measure the glass of the lamp. Do not go up any higher than is necessary, but if you have to stretch be careful not to mark off the measurement with your nail, although the impulse is a natural one. That has been done already." Parkinson looked apprehensively round and about. Fortunately the part was a dark and unfrequented spot and everyone else was moving towards the exit at the other end of the platform. Fortunately, also, the signal was not a high one. "As near as I can judge on the rounded surface, the glass is four and seven-eighths across," reported Parkinson. "Thank you," replied Carrados, returning the measure to his pocket, "four and seven-eighths is quite near enough. Now we will take the next train back." Sunday evening came, and with it Mr. Carlyle to The Turrets at the appointed hour. He brought to the situation a mind poised for any eventuality and a trenchant eye. As the time went on and the impenetrable Carrados made no allusion to the case, Carlyle's manner inclined to a waggish commiseration of his host's position. Actually, he said little, but the crisp precision of his voice when the path lay open to a remark of any significance left little to be said. It was not until they had finished dinner and returned to the library that Carrados gave the slightest hint of anything unusual being in the air. His first indication of coming events was to remove the key from the outside to the inside of the door. "What are you doing, Max?" demanded Mr. Carlyle, his curiosity overcoming the indirect attitude. "You have been very entertaining, Louis," replied his friend, "but Parkinson should be back very soon now and it is as well to be prepared. Do you happen to carry a revolver?" "Not when I come to dine with you, Max," replied Carlyle, with all the aplomb he could muster. "Is it usual?" Carrados smiled affectionately at his guest's agile recovery and touched the secret spring of a drawer in an antique bureau by his side. The little hidden receptacle shot smoothly out, disclosing a pair of dull-blued pistols. "To-night, at all events, it might be prudent," he replied, handing one to Carlyle and putting the other into his own pocket. "Our man may be here at any minute, and we do not know in what temper he will come." "Our man!" exclaimed Carlyle, craning forward in excitement. "Max! you don't mean to say that you have got Mead to admit it?" "No one has admitted it," said Carrados. "And it is not Mead." "Not Mead.... Do you mean that Hutchins--?" "Neither Mead nor Hutchins. The man who tampered with the signal--for Hutchins was right and a green light _was_ exhibited--is a young Indian from Bengal. His name is Drishna and he lives at Swanstead." Mr. Carlyle stared at his friend between sheer surprise and blank incredulity. "You really mean this, Carrados?" he said. "My fatal reputation for humour!" smiled Carrados. "If I am wrong, Louis, the next hour will expose it." "But why--why--why? The colossal villainy, the unparalleled audacity!" Mr. Carlyle lost himself among incredulous superlatives and could only stare. "Chiefly to get himself out of a disastrous speculation," replied Carrados, answering the question. "If there was another motive--or at least an incentive--which I suspect, doubtless we shall hear of it." "All the same, Max, I don't think that you have treated me quite fairly," protested Carlyle, getting over his first surprise and passing to a sense of injury. "Here we are and I know nothing, absolutely nothing, of the whole affair." "We both have our ideas of pleasantry, Louis," replied Carrados genially. "But I dare say you are right and perhaps there is still time to atone." In the fewest possible words he outlined the course of his investigations. "And now you know all that is to be known until Drishna arrives." "But will he come?" questioned Carlyle doubtfully. "He may be suspicious." "Yes, he will be suspicious." "Then he will not come." "On the contrary, Louis, he will come because my letter will make him suspicious. He _is_ coming; otherwise Parkinson would have telephoned me at once and we should have had to take other measures." "What did you say, Max?" asked Carlyle curiously. "I wrote that I was anxious to discuss an Indo-Scythian inscription with him, and sent my car in the hope that he would be able to oblige me." "But is he interested in Indo-Scythian inscriptions?" "I haven't the faintest idea," admitted Carrados, and Mr. Carlyle was throwing up his hands in despair when the sound of a motor-car wheels softly kissing the gravel surface of the drive outside brought him to his feet. "By Gad, you are right, Max!" he exclaimed, peeping through the curtains. "There is a man inside." "Mr. Drishna," announced Parkinson a minute later. The visitor came into the room with leisurely self-possession that might have been real or a desperate assumption. He was a slightly built young man of about twenty-five, with black hair and eyes, a small, carefully trained moustache, and a dark olive skin. His physiognomy was not displeasing, but his expression had a harsh and supercilious tinge. In attire he erred towards the immaculately spruce. "Mr. Carrados?" he said inquiringly. Carrados, who had risen, bowed slightly without offering his hand. "This gentleman," he said, indicating his friend, "is Mr. Carlyle, the celebrated private detective." The Indian shot a very sharp glance at the object of this description. Then he sat down. "You wrote me a letter, Mr. Carrados," he remarked, in English that scarcely betrayed any foreign origin, "a rather curious letter, I may say. You asked me about an ancient inscription. I know nothing of antiquities; but I thought, as you had sent, that it would be more courteous if I came and explained this to you." "That was the object of my letter," replied Carrados. "You wished to see me?" said Drishna, unable to stand the ordeal of the silence that Carrados imposed after his remark. "When you left Miss Chubb's house you left a ruler behind." One lay on the desk by Carrados and he took it up as he spoke. "I don't understand what you are talking about," said Drishna guardedly. "You are making some mistake." "The ruler was marked at four and seven-eighths inches--the measure of the glass of the signal lamp outside." The unfortunate young man was unable to repress a start. His face lost its healthy tone. Then, with a sudden impulse, he made a step forward and snatched the object from Carrados's hand. "If it is mine I have a right to it," he exclaimed, snapping the ruler in two and throwing it on to the back of the blazing fire. "It is nothing." "Pardon me, I did not say that the one you have so impetuously disposed of was yours. As a matter of fact, it was mine. Yours is--elsewhere." "Wherever it is you have no right to it if it is mine," panted Drishna, with rising excitement. "You are a thief, Mr. Carrados. I will not stay any longer here." He jumped up and turned towards the door. Carlyle made a step forward, but the precaution was unnecessary. "One moment, Mr. Drishna," interposed Carrados, in his smoothest tones. "It is a pity, after you have come so far, to leave without hearing of my investigations in the neighbourhood of Shaftesbury Avenue." Drishna sat down again. "As you like," he muttered. "It does not interest me." "I wanted to obtain a lamp of a certain pattern," continued Carrados. "It seemed to me that the simplest explanation would be to say that I wanted it for a motor-car. Naturally I went to Long Acre. At the first shop I said: 'Wasn't it here that a friend of mine, an Indian gentleman, recently had a lamp made with a green glass that was nearly five inches across?' No, it was not there but they could make me one. At the next shop the same; at the third, and fourth, and so on. Finally my persistence was rewarded. I found the place where the lamp had been made, and at the cost of ordering another I obtained all the details I wanted. It was news to them, the shopman informed me, that in some parts of India green was the danger colour and therefore tail lamps had to show a green light. The incident made some impression on him and he would be able to identify their customer--who paid in advance and gave no address--among a thousand of his countrymen. Do I succeed in interesting you, Mr. Drishna?" "Do you?" replied Drishna, with a languid yawn. "Do I look interested?" "You must make allowance for my unfortunate blindness," apologized Carrados, with grim irony. "Blindness!" exclaimed Drishna, dropping his affectation of unconcern as though electrified by the word, "do you mean--really blind--that you do not see me?" "Alas, no," admitted Carrados. The Indian withdrew his right hand from his coat pocket and with a tragic gesture flung a heavy revolver down on the table between them. "I have had you covered all the time, Mr. Carrados, and if I had wished to go and you or your friend had raised a hand to stop me, it would have been at the peril of your lives," he said, in a voice of melancholy triumph. "But what is the use of defying fate, and who successfully evades his destiny? A month ago I went to see one of our people who reads the future and sought to know the course of certain events. 'You need fear no human eye,' was the message given to me. Then she added: 'But when the sightless sees the unseen, make your peace with Yama.' And I thought she spoke of the Great Hereafter!" "This amounts to an admission of your guilt," exclaimed Mr. Carlyle practically. "I bow to the decree of fate," replied Drishna. "And it is fitting to the universal irony of existence that a blind man should be the instrument. I don't imagine, Mr. Carlyle," he added maliciously, "that you, with your eyes, would ever have brought that result about." "You are a very cold-blooded young scoundrel, sir!" retorted Mr. Carlyle. "Good heavens! do you realize that you are responsible for the death of scores of innocent men and women?" "Do _you_ realize, Mr. Carlyle, that you and your Government and your soldiers are responsible for the death of thousands of innocent men and women in my country every day? If England was occupied by the Germans who quartered an army and an administration with their wives and their families and all their expensive paraphernalia on the unfortunate country until the whole nation was reduced to the verge of famine, and the appointment of every new official meant the callous death sentence on a thousand men and women to pay his salary, then if you went to Berlin and wrecked a train you would be hailed a patriot. What Boadicea did and--and Samson, so have I. If they were heroes, so am I." "Well, upon my word!" cried the highly scandalized Carlyle, "what next! Boadicea was a--er--semi-legendary person, whom we may possibly admire at a distance. Personally, I do not profess to express an opinion. But Samson, I would remind you, is a Biblical character. Samson was mocked as an enemy. You, I do not doubt, have been entertained as a friend." "And haven't I been mocked and despised and sneered at every day of my life here by your supercilious, superior, empty-headed men?" flashed back Drishna, his eyes leaping into malignity and his voice trembling with sudden passion. "Oh! how I hated them as I passed them in the street and recognized by a thousand petty insults their lordly English contempt for me as an inferior being--a nigger. How I longed with Caligula that a nation had a single neck that I might destroy it at one blow. I loathe you in your complacent hypocrisy, Mr. Carlyle, despise and utterly abominate you from an eminence of superiority that you can never even understand." "I think we are getting rather away from the point, Mr. Drishna," interposed Carrados, with the impartiality of a judge. "Unless I am misinformed, you are not so ungallant as to include everyone you have met here in your execration?" "Ah, no," admitted Drishna, descending into a quite ingenuous frankness. "Much as I hate your men I love your women. How is it possible that a nation should be so divided--its men so dull-witted and offensive, its women so quick, sympathetic and capable of appreciating?" "But a little expensive, too, at times?" suggested Carrados. Drishna sighed heavily. "Yes; it is incredible. It is the generosity of their large nature. My allowance, though what most of you would call noble, has proved quite inadequate. I was compelled to borrow money and the interest became overwhelming. Bankruptcy was impracticable because I should have then been recalled by my people, and much as I detest England a certain reason made the thought of leaving it unbearable." "Connected with the Arcady Theatre?" "You know? Well, do not let us introduce the lady's name. In order to restore myself I speculated on the Stock Exchange. My credit was good through my father's position and the standing of the firm to which I am attached. I heard on reliable authority, and very early, that the Central and Suburban, and the Deferred especially, was safe to fall heavily, through a motor bus amalgamation that was then a secret. I opened a bear account and sold largely. The shares fell, but only fractionally, and I waited. Then, unfortunately, they began to go up. Adverse forces were at work and rumours were put about. I could not stand the settlement, and in order to carry over an account I was literally compelled to deal temporarily with some securities that were not technically my own property." "Embezzlement, sir," commented Mr. Carlyle icily. "But what is embezzlement on the top of wholesale murder!" "That is what it is called. In my case, however, it was only to be temporary. Unfortunately, the rise continued. Then, at the height of my despair, I chanced to be returning to Swanstead rather earlier than usual one evening, and the train was stopped at a certain signal to let another pass. There was conversation in the carriage and I learned certain details. One said that there would be an accident some day, and so forth. In a flash--as by an inspiration--I saw how the circumstance might be turned to account. A bad accident and the shares would certainly fall and my position would be retrieved. I think Mr. Carrados has somehow learned the rest." "Max," said Mr. Carlyle, with emotion, "is there any reason why you should not send your man for a police officer and have this monster arrested on his own confession without further delay?" "Pray do so, Mr. Carrados," acquiesced Drishna. "I shall certainly be hanged, but the speech I shall prepare will ring from one end of India to the other; my memory will be venerated as that of a martyr; and the emancipation of my motherland will be hastened by my sacrifice." "In other words," commented Carrados, "there will be disturbances at half-a-dozen disaffected places, a few unfortunate police will be clubbed to death, and possibly worse things may happen. That does not suit us, Mr. Drishna." "And how do you propose to prevent it?" asked Drishna, with cool assurance. "It is very unpleasant being hanged on a dark winter morning; very cold, very friendless, very inhuman. The long trial, the solitude and the confinement, the thoughts of the long sleepless night before, the hangman and the pinioning and the noosing of the rope, are apt to prey on the imagination. Only a very stupid man can take hanging easily." "What do you want me to do instead, Mr. Carrados?" asked Drishna shrewdly. Carrados's hand closed on the weapon that still lay on the table between them. Without a word he pushed it across. "I see," commented Drishna, with a short laugh and a gleaming eye. "Shoot myself and hush it up to suit your purpose. Withhold my message to save the exposures of a trial, and keep the flame from the torch of insurrectionary freedom." "Also," interposed Carrados mildly, "to save your worthy people a good deal of shame, and to save the lady who is nameless the unpleasant necessity of relinquishing the house and the income which you have just settled on her. She certainly would not then venerate your memory." "What is that?" "The transaction which you carried through was based on a felony and could not be upheld. The firm you dealt with will go to the courts, and the money, being directly traceable, will be held forfeit as no good consideration passed." "Max!" cried Mr. Carlyle hotly, "you are not going to let this scoundrel cheat the gallows after all?" "The best use you can make of the gallows is to cheat it, Louis," replied Carrados. "Have you ever reflected what human beings will think of us a hundred years hence?" "Oh, of course I'm not really in favour of hanging," admitted Mr. Carlyle. "Nobody really is. But we go on hanging. Mr. Drishna is a dangerous animal who for the sake of pacific animals must cease to exist. Let his barbarous exploit pass into oblivion with him. The disadvantages of spreading it broadcast immeasurably outweigh the benefits." "I have considered," announced Drishna. "I will do as you wish." "Very well," said Carrados. "Here is some plain notepaper. You had better write a letter to someone saying that the financial difficulties in which you are involved make life unbearable." "But there are no financial difficulties--now." "That does not matter in the least. It will be put down to an hallucination and taken as showing the state of your mind." "But what guarantee have we that he will not escape?" whispered Mr. Carlyle. "He cannot escape," replied Carrados tranquilly. "His identity is too clear." "I have no intention of trying to escape," put in Drishna, as he wrote. "You hardly imagine that I have not considered this eventuality, do you?" "All the same," murmured the ex-lawyer, "I should like to have a jury behind me. It is one thing to execute a man morally; it is another to do it almost literally." "Is that all right?" asked Drishna, passing across the letter he had written. Carrados smiled at this tribute to his perception. "Quite excellent," he replied courteously. "There is a train at nine-forty. Will that suit you?" Drishna nodded and stood up. Mr. Carlyle had a very uneasy feeling that he ought to do something but could not suggest to himself what. The next moment he heard his friend heartily thanking the visitor for the assistance he had been in the matter of the Indo-Scythian inscription, as they walked across the hall together. Then a door closed. "I believe that there is something positively uncanny about Max at times," murmured the perturbed gentleman to himself. THE TRAGEDY AT BROOKBEND COTTAGE "Max," said Mr. Carlyle, when Parkinson had closed the door behind him, "this is Lieutenant Hollyer, whom you consented to see." "To hear," corrected Carrados, smiling straight into the healthy and rather embarrassed face of the stranger before him. "Mr. Hollyer knows of my disability?" "Mr. Carlyle told me," said the young man, "but, as a matter of fact, I had heard of you before, Mr. Carrados, from one of our men. It was in connection with the foundering of the _Ivan Saratov_." Carrados wagged his head in good-humoured resignation. "And the owners were sworn to inviolable secrecy!" he exclaimed. "Well, it is inevitable, I suppose. Not another scuttling case, Mr. Hollyer?" "No, mine is quite a private matter," replied the lieutenant. "My sister, Mrs. Creake--but Mr. Carlyle would tell you better than I can. He knows all about it." "No, no; Carlyle is a professional. Let me have it in the rough, Mr. Hollyer. My ears are my eyes, you know." "Very well, sir. I can tell you what there is to tell, right enough, but I feel that when all's said and done it must sound very little to another, although it seems important to me." "We have occasionally found trifles of significance ourselves," said Carrados encouragingly. "Don't let that deter you." This was the essence of Lieutenant Hollyer's narrative: "I have a sister, Millicent, who is married to a man called Creake. She is about twenty-eight now and he is at least fifteen years older. Neither my mother (who has since died) nor I cared very much about Creake. We had nothing particular against him, except, perhaps, the moderate disparity of age, but none of us appeared to have anything in common. He was a dark, taciturn man, and his moody silence froze up conversation. As a result, of course, we didn't see much of each other." "This, you must understand, was four or five years ago, Max," interposed Mr. Carlyle officiously. Carrados maintained an uncompromising silence. Mr. Carlyle blew his nose and contrived to impart a hurt significance into the operation. Then Lieutenant Hollyer continued: "Millicent married Creake after a very short engagement. It was a frightfully subdued wedding--more like a funeral to me. The man professed to have no relations and apparently he had scarcely any friends or business acquaintances. He was an agent for something or other and had an office off Holborn. I suppose he made a living out of it then, although we knew practically nothing of his private affairs, but I gather that it has been going down since, and I suspect that for the past few years they have been getting along almost entirely on Millicent's little income. You would like the particulars of that?" "Please," assented Carrados. "When our father died about seven years ago, he left three thousand pounds. It was invested in Canadian stock and brought in a little over a hundred a year. By his will my mother was to have the income of that for life and on her death it was to pass to Millicent, subject to the payment of a lump sum of five hundred pounds to me. But my father privately suggested to me that if I should have no particular use for the money at the time, he would propose my letting Millicent have the income of it until I did want it, as she would not be particularly well off. You see, Mr. Carrados, a great deal more had been spent on my education and advancement than on her; I had my pay, and, of course, I could look out for myself better than a girl could." "Quite so," agreed Carrados. "Therefore I did nothing about that," continued the lieutenant. "Three years ago I was over again but I did not see much of them. They were living in lodgings. That was the only time since the marriage that I have seen them until last week. In the meanwhile our mother had died and Millicent had been receiving her income. She wrote me several letters at the time. Otherwise we did not correspond much, but about a year ago she sent me their new address--Brookbend Cottage, Mulling Common--a house that they had taken. When I got two months' leave I invited myself there as a matter of course, fully expecting to stay most of my time with them, but I made an excuse to get away after a week. The place was dismal and unendurable, the whole life and atmosphere indescribably depressing." He looked round with an instinct of caution, leaned forward earnestly, and dropped his voice. "Mr. Carrados, it is my absolute conviction that Creake is only waiting for a favourable opportunity to murder Millicent." "Go on," said Carrados quietly. "A week of the depressing surroundings of Brookbend Cottage would not alone convince you of that, Mr. Hollyer." "I am not so sure," declared Hollyer doubtfully. "There was a feeling of suspicion and--before me--polite hatred that would have gone a good way towards it. All the same there _was_ something more definite. Millicent told me this the day after I went there. There is no doubt that a few months ago Creake deliberately planned to poison her with some weed-killer. She told me the circumstances in a rather distressed moment, but afterwards she refused to speak of it again--even weakly denied it--and, as a matter of fact, it was with the greatest of difficulty that I could get her at any time to talk about her husband or his affairs. The gist of it was that she had the strongest suspicion that Creake doctored a bottle of stout which he expected she would drink for her supper when she was alone. The weed-killer, properly labelled, but also in a beer bottle, was kept with other miscellaneous liquids in the same cupboard as the beer but on a high shelf. When he found that it had miscarried he poured away the mixture, washed out the bottle and put in the dregs from another. There is no doubt in my mind that if he had come back and found Millicent dead or dying he would have contrived it to appear that she had made a mistake in the dark and drunk some of the poison before she found out." "Yes," assented Carrados. "The open way; the safe way." "You must understand that they live in a very small style, Mr. Carrados, and Millicent is almost entirely in the man's power. The only servant they have is a woman who comes in for a few hours every day. The house is lonely and secluded. Creake is sometimes away for days and nights at a time, and Millicent, either through pride or indifference, seems to have dropped off all her old friends and to have made no others. He might poison her, bury the body in the garden, and be a thousand miles away before anyone began even to inquire about her. What am I to do, Mr. Carrados?" "He is less likely to try poison than some other means now," pondered Carrados. "That having failed, his wife will always be on her guard. He may know, or at least suspect, that others know. No. ... The common-sense precaution would be for your sister to leave the man, Mr. Hollyer. She will not?" "No," admitted Hollyer, "she will not. I at once urged that." The young man struggled with some hesitation for a moment and then blurted out: "The fact is, Mr. Carrados, I don't understand Millicent. She is not the girl she was. She hates Creake and treats him with a silent contempt that eats into their lives like acid, and yet she is so jealous of him that she will let nothing short of death part them. It is a horrible life they lead. I stood it for a week and I must say, much as I dislike my brother-in-law, that he has something to put up with. If only he got into a passion like a man and killed her it wouldn't be altogether incomprehensible." "That does not concern us," said Carrados. "In a game of this kind one has to take sides and we have taken ours. It remains for us to see that our side wins. You mentioned jealousy, Mr. Hollyer. Have you any idea whether Mrs. Creake has real ground for it?" "I should have told you that," replied Lieutenant Hollyer. "I happened to strike up with a newspaper man whose office is in the same block as Creake's. When I mentioned the name he grinned. 'Creake,' he said, 'oh, he's the man with the romantic typist, isn't he?' 'Well, he's my brother-in-law,' I replied. 'What about the typist?' Then the chap shut up like a knife. 'No, no,' he said, 'I didn't know he was married. I don't want to get mixed up in anything of that sort. I only said that he had a typist. Well, what of that? So have we; so has everyone.' There was nothing more to be got out of him, but the remark and the grin meant--well, about as usual, Mr. Carrados." Carrados turned to his friend. "I suppose you know all about the typist by now, Louis?" "We have had her under efficient observation, Max," replied Mr. Carlyle with severe dignity. "Is she unmarried?" "Yes; so far as ordinary repute goes, she is." "That is all that is essential for the moment. Mr. Hollyer opens up three excellent reasons why this man might wish to dispose of his wife. If we accept the suggestion of poisoning--though we have only a jealous woman's suspicion for it--we add to the wish the determination. Well, we will go forward on that. Have you got a photograph of Mr. Creake?" The lieutenant took out his pocket-book. "Mr. Carlyle asked me for one. Here is the best I could get." Carrados rang the bell. "This, Parkinson," he said, when the man appeared, "is a photograph of a Mr. ---- What first name, by the way?" "Austin," put in Hollyer, who was following everything with a boyish mixture of excitement and subdued importance. "--of a Mr. Austin Creake. I may require you to recognize him." Parkinson glanced at the print and returned it to his master's hand. "May I inquire if it is a recent photograph of the gentleman, sir?" he asked. "About six years ago," said the lieutenant, taking in this new actor in the drama with frank curiosity. "But he is very little changed." "Thank you, sir. I will endeavour to remember Mr. Creake, sir." Lieutenant Hollyer stood up as Parkinson left the room. The interview seemed to be at an end. "Oh, there's one other matter," he remarked. "I am afraid that I did rather an unfortunate thing while I was at Brookbend. It seemed to me that as all Millicent's money would probably pass into Creake's hands sooner or later I might as well have my five hundred pounds, if only to help her with afterwards. So I broached the subject and said that I should like to have it now as I had an opportunity for investing." "And you think?" "It may possibly influence Creake to act sooner than he otherwise might have done. He may have got possession of the principal even and find it very awkward to replace it." "So much the better. If your sister is going to be murdered it may as well be done next week as next year so far as I am concerned. Excuse my brutality, Mr. Hollyer, but this is simply a case to me and I regard it strategically. Now Mr. Carlyle's organization can look after Mrs. Creake for a few weeks, but it cannot look after her for ever. By increasing the immediate risk we diminish the permanent risk." "I see," agreed Hollyer. "I'm awfully uneasy but I'm entirely in your hands." "Then we will give Mr. Creake every inducement and every opportunity to get to work. Where are you staying now?" "Just now with some friends at St. Albans." "That is too far." The inscrutable eyes retained their tranquil depth but a new quality of quickening interest in the voice made Mr. Carlyle forget the weight and burden of his ruffled dignity. "Give me a few minutes, please. The cigarettes are behind you, Mr. Hollyer." The blind man walked to the window and seemed to look out over the cypress-shaded lawn. The lieutenant lit a cigarette and Mr. Carlyle picked up Punch. Then Carrados turned round again. "You are prepared to put your own arrangements aside?" he demanded of his visitor. "Certainly." "Very well. I want you to go down now--straight from here--to Brookbend Cottage. Tell your sister that your leave is unexpectedly cut short and that you sail to-morrow." "The _Martian_?' "No, no; the _Martian_ doesn't sail. Look up the movements on your way there and pick out a boat that does. Say you are transferred. Add that you expect to be away only two or three months and that you really want the five hundred pounds by the time of your return. Don't stay in the house long, please." "I understand, sir." "St. Albans is too far. Make your excuse and get away from there to-day. Put up somewhere in town, where you will be in reach of the telephone. Let Mr. Carlyle and myself know where you are. Keep out of Creake's way. I don't want actually to tie you down to the house, but we may require your services. We will let you know at the first sign of anything doing and if there is nothing to be done we must release you." "I don't mind that. Is there nothing more that I can do now?" "Nothing. In going to Mr. Carlyle you have done the best thing possible; you have put your sister into the care of the shrewdest man in London." Whereat the object of this quite unexpected eulogy found himself becoming covered with modest confusion. "Well, Max?" remarked Mr. Carlyle tentatively when they were alone. "Well, Louis?" "Of course it wasn't worth while rubbing it in before young Hollyer, but, as a matter of fact, every single man carries the life of any other man--only one, mind you--in his hands, do what you will." "Provided he doesn't bungle," acquiesced Carrados. "Quite so." "And also that he is absolutely reckless of the consequences." "Of course." "Two rather large provisos. Creake is obviously susceptible to both. Have you seen him?" "No. As I told you, I put a man on to report his habits in town. Then, two days ago, as the case seemed to promise some interest--for he certainly is deeply involved with the typist, Max, and the thing might take a sensational turn at any time--I went down to Mulling Common myself. Although the house is lonely it is on the electric tram route. You know the sort of market garden rurality that about a dozen miles out of London offers--alternate bricks and cabbages. It was easy enough to get to know about Creake locally. He mixes with no one there, goes into town at irregular times but generally every day, and is reputed to be devilish hard to get money out of. Finally I made the acquaintance of an old fellow who used to do a day's gardening at Brookbend occasionally. He has a cottage and a garden of his own with a greenhouse, and the business cost me the price of a pound of tomatoes." "Was it--a profitable investment?" "As tomatoes, yes; as information, no. The old fellow had the fatal disadvantage from our point of view of labouring under a grievance. A few weeks ago Creake told him that he would not require him again as he was going to do his own gardening in future." "That is something, Louis." "If only Creake was going to poison his wife with hyoscyamine and bury her, instead of blowing her up with a dynamite cartridge and claiming that it came in among the coal." "True, true. Still--" "However, the chatty old soul had a simple explanation for everything that Creake did. Creake was mad. He had even seen him flying a kite in his garden where it was found to get wrecked among the trees. A lad of ten would have known better, he declared. And certainly the kite did get wrecked, for I saw it hanging over the road myself. But that a sane man should spend his time 'playing with a toy' was beyond him." "A good many men have been flying kites of various kinds lately," said Carrados. "Is he interested in aviation?" "I dare say. He appears to have some knowledge of scientific subjects. Now what do you want me to do, Max?" "Will you do it?" "Implicitly--subject to the usual reservations." "Keep your man on Creake in town and let me have his reports after you have seen them. Lunch with me here now. 'Phone up to your office that you are detained on unpleasant business and then give the deserving Parkinson an afternoon off by looking after me while we take a motor run round Mulling Common. If we have time we might go on to Brighton, feed at the 'Ship,' and come back in the cool." "Amiable and thrice lucky mortal," sighed Mr. Carlyle, his glance wandering round the room. But, as it happened, Brighton did not figure in that day's itinerary. It had been Carrados's intention merely to pass Brookbend Cottage on this occasion, relying on his highly developed faculties, aided by Mr. Carlyle's description, to inform him of the surroundings. A hundred yards before they reached the house he had given an order to his chauffeur to drop into the lowest speed and they were leisurely drawing past when a discovery by Mr. Carlyle modified their plans. "By Jupiter!" that gentleman suddenly exclaimed, "there's a board up, Max. The place is to be let." Carrados picked up the tube again. A couple of sentences passed and the car stopped by the roadside, a score of paces past the limit of the garden. Mr. Carlyle took out his notebook and wrote down the address of a firm of house agents. "You might raise the bonnet and have a look at the engines, Harris," said Carrados. "We want to be occupied here for a few minutes." "This is sudden; Hollyer knew nothing of their leaving," remarked Mr. Carlyle. "Probably not for three months yet. All the same, Louis, we will go on to the agents and get a card to view whether we use it to-day or not." A thick hedge, in its summer dress effectively screening the house beyond from public view, lay between the garden and the road. Above the hedge showed an occasional shrub; at the corner nearest to the car a chestnut flourished. The wooden gate, once white, which they had passed, was grimed and rickety. The road itself was still the unpretentious country lane that the advent of the electric car had found it. When Carrados had taken in these details there seemed little else to notice. He was on the point of giving Harris the order to go on when his ear caught a trivial sound. "Someone is coming out of the house, Louis," he warned his friend. "It may be Hollyer, but he ought to have gone by this time." "I don't hear anyone," replied the other, but as he spoke a door banged noisily and Mr. Carlyle slipped into another seat and ensconced himself behind a copy of _The Globe_. "Creake himself," he whispered across the car, as a man appeared at the gate. "Hollyer was right; he is hardly changed. Waiting for a car, I suppose." But a car very soon swung past them from the direction in which Mr. Creake was looking and it did not interest him. For a minute or two longer he continued to look expectantly along the road. Then he walked slowly up the drive back to the house. "We will give him five or ten minutes," decided Carrados. "Harris is behaving very naturally." Before even the shorter period had run out they were repaid. A telegraph-boy cycled leisurely along the road, and, leaving his machine at the gate, went up to the cottage. Evidently there was no reply, for in less than a minute he was trundling past them back again. Round the bend an approaching tram clanged its bell noisily, and, quickened by the warning sound, Mr. Creake again appeared, this time with a small portmanteau in his hand. With a backward glance he hurried on towards the next stopping-place, and, boarding the car as it slackened down, he was carried out of their knowledge. "Very convenient of Mr. Creake," remarked Carrados, with quiet satisfaction. "We will now get the order and go over the house in his absence. It might be useful to have a look at the wire as well." "It might, Max," acquiesced Mr. Carlyle a little dryly. "But if it is, as it probably is in Creake's pocket, how do you propose to get it?" "By going to the post office, Louis." "Quite so. Have you ever tried to see a copy of a telegram addressed to someone else?" "I don't think I have ever had occasion yet," admitted Carrados. "Have you?" "In one or two cases I have perhaps been an accessory to the act. It is generally a matter either of extreme delicacy or considerable expenditure." "Then for Hollyer's sake we will hope for the former here." And Mr. Carlyle smiled darkly and hinted that he was content to wait for a friendly revenge. A little later, having left the car at the beginning of the straggling High Street, the two men called at the village post office. They had already visited the house agent and obtained an order to view Brookbend Cottage, declining with some difficulty the clerk's persistent offer to accompany them. The reason was soon forthcoming. "As a matter of fact," explained the young man, "the present tenant is under _our_ notice to leave." "Unsatisfactory, eh?" said Carrados encouragingly. "He's a corker," admitted the clerk, responding to the friendly tone. "Fifteen months and not a doit of rent have we had. That's why I should have liked--" "We will make every allowance," replied Carrados. The post office occupied one side of a stationer's shop. It was not without some inward trepidation that Mr. Carlyle found himself committed to the adventure. Carrados, on the other hand, was the personification of bland unconcern. "You have just sent a telegram to Brookbend Cottage," he said to the young lady behind the brasswork lattice. "We think it may have come inaccurately and should like a repeat." He took out his purse. "What is the fee?" The request was evidently not a common one. "Oh," said the girl uncertainly, "wait a minute, please." She turned to a pile of telegram duplicates behind the desk and ran a doubtful finger along the upper sheets. "I think this is all right. You want it repeated?" "Please." Just a tinge of questioning surprise gave point to the courteous tone. "It will be fourpence. If there is an error the amount will be refunded." Carrados put down his coin and received his change. "Will it take long?" he inquired carelessly, as he pulled on his glove. "You will most likely get it within a quarter of an hour," she replied. "Now you've done it," commented Mr. Carlyle as they walked back to their car. "How do you propose to get that telegram, Max?" "Ask for it," was the laconic explanation. And, stripping the artifice of any elaboration, he simply asked for it and got it. The car, posted at a convenient bend in the road, gave him a warning note as the telegraph-boy approached. Then Carrados took up a convincing attitude with his hand on the gate while Mr. Carlyle lent himself to the semblance of a departing friend. That was the inevitable impression when the boy rode up. "Creake, Brookbend Cottage?" inquired Carrados, holding out his hand, and without a second thought the boy gave him the envelope and rode away on the assurance that there would be no reply. "Some day, my friend," remarked Mr. Carlyle, looking nervously toward the unseen house, "your ingenuity will get you into a tight corner." "Then my ingenuity must get me out again," was the retort. "Let us have our 'view' now. The telegram can wait." An untidy workwoman took their order and left them standing at the door. Presently a lady whom they both knew to be Mrs. Creake appeared. "You wish to see over the house?" she said, in a voice that was utterly devoid of any interest. Then, without waiting for a reply, she turned to the nearest door and threw it open. "This is the drawing-room," she said, standing aside. They walked into a sparsely furnished, damp-smelling room and made a pretence of looking round, while Mrs. Creake remained silent and aloof. "The dining-room," she continued, crossing the narrow hall and opening another door. Mr. Carlyle ventured a genial commonplace in the hope of inducing conversation. The result was not encouraging. Doubtless they would have gone through the house under the same frigid guidance had not Carrados been at fault in a way that Mr. Carlyle had never known him fail before. In crossing the hall he stumbled over a mat and almost fell. "Pardon my clumsiness," he said to the lady. "I am, unfortunately, quite blind. But," he added, with a smile, to turn off the mishap, "even a blind man must have a house." The man who had eyes was surprised to see a flood of colour rush into Mrs. Creake's face. "Blind!" she exclaimed, "oh, I beg your pardon. Why did you not tell me? You might have fallen." "I generally manage fairly well," he replied. "But, of course, in a strange house--" She put her hand on his arm very lightly. "You must let me guide you, just a little," she said. The house, without being large, was full of passages and inconvenient turnings. Carrados asked an occasional question and found Mrs. Creake quite amiable without effusion. Mr. Carlyle followed them from room to room in the hope, though scarcely the expectation, of learning something that might be useful. "This is the last one. It is the largest bedroom," said their guide. Only two of the upper rooms were fully furnished and Mr. Carlyle at once saw, as Carrados knew without seeing, that this was the one which the Creakes occupied. "A very pleasant outlook," declared Mr. Carlyle. "Oh, I suppose so," admitted the lady vaguely. The room, in fact, looked over the leafy garden and the road beyond. It had a French window opening on to a small balcony, and to this, under the strange influence that always attracted him to light, Carrados walked. "I expect that there is a certain amount of repair needed?" he said, after standing there a moment. "I am afraid there would be," she confessed. "I ask because there is a sheet of metal on the floor here," he continued. "Now that, in an old house, spells dry rot to the wary observer." "My husband said that the rain, which comes in a little under the window, was rotting the boards there," she replied. "He put that down recently. I had not noticed anything myself." It was the first time she had mentioned her husband; Mr. Carlyle pricked up his ears. "Ah, that is a less serious matter," said Carrados. "May I step out on to the balcony?" "Oh yes, if you like to." Then, as he appeared to be fumbling at the catch, "Let me open it for you." But the window was already open, and Carrados, facing the various points of the compass, took in the bearings. "A sunny, sheltered corner," he remarked. "An ideal spot for a deck-chair and a book." She shrugged her shoulders half contemptuously. "I dare say," she replied, "but I never use it." "Sometimes, surely," he persisted mildly. "It would be my favourite retreat. But then--" "I was going to say that I had never even been out on it, but that would not be quite true. It has two uses for me, both equally romantic; I occasionally shake a duster from it, and when my husband returns late without his latchkey he wakes me up and I come out here and drop him mine." Further revelation of Mr. Creake's nocturnal habits was cut off, greatly to Mr. Carlyle's annoyance, by a cough of unmistakable significance from the foot of the stairs. They had heard a trade cart drive up to the gate, a knock at the door, and the heavy-footed woman tramp along the hall. "Excuse me a minute, please," said Mrs. Creake. "Louis," said Carrados, in a sharp whisper, the moment they were alone, "stand against the door." With extreme plausibility Mr. Carlyle began to admire a picture so situated that while he was there it was impossible to open the door more than a few inches. From that position he observed his confederate go through the curious procedure of kneeling down on the bedroom floor and for a full minute pressing his ear to the sheet of metal that had already engaged his attention. Then he rose to his feet, nodded, dusted his trousers, and Mr. Carlyle moved to a less equivocal position. "What a beautiful rose-tree grows up your balcony," remarked Carrados, stepping into the room as Mrs. Creake returned. "I suppose you are very fond of gardening?" "I detest it," she replied. "But this _Gloire_, so carefully trained--?" "Is it?" she replied. "I think my husband was nailing it up recently." By some strange fatality Carrados's most aimless remarks seemed to involve the absent Mr. Creake. "Do you care to see the garden?" The garden proved to be extensive and neglected. Behind the house was chiefly orchard. In front, some semblance of order had been kept up; here it was lawn and shrubbery, and the drive they had walked along. Two things interested Carrados: the soil at the foot of the balcony, which he declared on examination to be particularly suitable for roses, and the fine chestnut-tree in the corner by the road. As they walked back to the car Mr. Carlyle lamented that they had learned so little of Creake's movements. "Perhaps the telegram will tell us something," suggested Carrados. "Read it, Louis." Mr. Carlyle cut open the envelope, glanced at the enclosure, and in spite of his disappointment could not restrain a chuckle. "My poor Max," he explained, "you have put yourself to an amount of ingenious trouble for nothing. Creake is evidently taking a few days' holiday and prudently availed himself of the Meteorological Office forecast before going. Listen: '_Immediate prospect for London warm and settled. Further outlook cooler but fine._' Well, well; I did get a pound of tomatoes for _my_ fourpence." "You certainly scored there, Louis," admitted Carrados, with humorous appreciation. "I wonder," he added speculatively, "whether it is Creake's peculiar taste usually to spend his week-end holiday in London." "Eh?" exclaimed Mr. Carlyle, looking at the words again, "by gad, that's rum, Max. They go to Weston-super-Mare. Why on earth should he want to know about London?" "I can make a guess, but before we are satisfied I must come here again. Take another look at that kite, Louis. Are there a few yards of string hanging loose from it?" "Yes, there are." "Rather thick string--unusually thick for the purpose?" "Yes, but how do you know?" As they drove home again Carrados explained, and Mr. Carlyle sat aghast, saying incredulously: "Good God, Max, is it possible?" An hour later he was satisfied that it was possible. In reply to his inquiry someone in his office telephoned him the information that "they" had left Paddington by the four-thirty for Weston. It was more than a week after his introduction to Carrados that Lieutenant Hollyer had a summons to present himself at The Turrets again. He found Mr. Carlyle already there and the two friends were awaiting his arrival. "I stayed in all day after hearing from you this morning, Mr. Carrados," he said, shaking hands. "When I got your second message I was all ready to walk straight out of the house. That's how I did it in the time. I hope everything is all right?" "Excellent," replied Carrados. "You'd better have something before we start. We probably have a long and perhaps an exciting night before us." "And certainly a wet one," assented the lieutenant. "It was thundering over Mulling way as I came along." "That is why you are here," said his host. "We are waiting for a certain message before we start, and in the meantime you may as well understand what we expect to happen. As you saw, there is a thunderstorm coming on. The Meteorological Office morning forecast predicted it for the whole of London if the conditions remained. That is why I kept you in readiness. Within an hour it is now inevitable that we shall experience a deluge. Here and there damage will be done to trees and buildings; here and there a person will probably be struck and killed." "Yes." "It is Mr. Creake's intention that his wife should be among the victims." "I don't exactly follow," said Hollyer, looking from one man to the other. "I quite admit that Creake would be immensely relieved if such a thing did happen, but the chance is surely an absurdly remote one." "Yet unless we intervene it is precisely what a coroner's jury will decide has happened. Do you know whether your brother-in-law has any practical knowledge of electricity, Mr. Hollyer?" "I cannot say. He was so reserved, and we really knew so little of him--" "Yet in 1896 an Austin Creake contributed an article on 'Alternating Currents' to the American _Scientific World_. That would argue a fairly intimate acquaintanceship." "But do you mean that he is going to direct a flash of lightning?" "Only into the minds of the doctor who conducts the post-mortem, and the coroner. This storm, the opportunity for which he has been waiting for weeks, is merely the cloak to his act. The weapon which he has planned to use--scarcely less powerful than lightning but much more tractable--is the high voltage current of electricity that flows along the tram wire at his gate." "Oh!" exclaimed Lieutenant Hollyer, as the sudden revelation struck him. "Some time between eleven o'clock to-night--about the hour when your sister goes to bed--and one thirty in the morning--the time up to which he can rely on the current--Creake will throw a stone up at the balcony window. Most of his preparation has long been made; it only remains for him to connect up a short length to the window handle and a longer one at the other end to tap the live wire. That done, he will wake his wife in the way I have said. The moment she moves the catch of the window--and he has carefully filed its parts to ensure perfect contact--she will be electrocuted as effectually as if she sat in the executioner's chair in Sing Sing prison." "But what are we doing here!" exclaimed Hollyer, starting to his feet, pale and horrified. "It is past ten now and anything may happen." "Quite natural, Mr. Hollyer," said Carrados reassuringly, "but you need have no anxiety. Creake is being watched, the house is being watched, and your sister is as safe as if she slept to-night in Windsor Castle. Be assured that whatever happens he will not be allowed to complete his scheme; but it is desirable to let him implicate himself to the fullest limit. Your brother-in-law, Mr. Hollyer, is a man with a peculiar capacity for taking pains." "He is a damned cold-blooded scoundrel!" exclaimed the young officer fiercely. "When I think of Millicent five years ago--" "Well, for that matter, an enlightened nation has decided that electrocution is the most humane way of removing its superfluous citizens," suggested Carrados mildly. "He is certainly an ingenious-minded gentleman. It is his misfortune that in Mr. Carlyle he was fated to be opposed by an even subtler brain--" "No, no! Really, Max!" protested the embarrassed gentleman. "Mr. Hollyer will be able to judge for himself when I tell him that it was Mr. Carlyle who first drew attention to the significance of the abandoned kite," insisted Carrados firmly. "Then, of course, its object became plain to me--as indeed to anyone. For ten minutes, perhaps, a wire must be carried from the overhead line to the chestnut-tree. Creake has everything in his favour, but it is just within possibility that the driver of an inopportune train might notice the appendage. What of that? Why, for more than a week he has seen a derelict kite with its yards of trailing string hanging in the tree. A very calculating mind, Mr. Hollyer. It would be interesting to know what line of action Mr. Creake has mapped out for himself afterwards. I expect he has half-a-dozen artistic little touches up his sleeve. Possibly he would merely singe his wife's hair, burn her feet with a red-hot poker, shiver the glass of the French window, and be content with that to let well alone. You see, lightning is so varied in its effects that whatever he did or did not do would be right. He is in the impregnable position of the body showing all the symptoms of death by lightning shock and nothing else but lightning to account for it--a dilated eye, heart contracted in systole, bloodless lungs shrunk to a third the normal weight, and all the rest of it. When he has removed a few outward traces of his work Creake might quite safely 'discover' his dead wife and rush off for the nearest doctor. Or he may have decided to arrange a convincing alibi, and creep away, leaving the discovery to another. We shall never know; he will make no confession." "I wish it was well over," admitted Hollyer, "I'm not particularly jumpy, but this gives me a touch of the creeps." "Three more hours at the worst, lieutenant," said Carrados cheerfully. "Ah-ha, something is coming through now." He went to the telephone and received a message from one quarter; then made another connection and talked for a few minutes with someone else. "Everything working smoothly," he remarked between times over his shoulder. "Your sister has gone to bed, Mr. Hollyer." Then he turned to the house telephone and distributed his orders. "So we," he concluded, "must get up." By the time they were ready a large closed motor car was waiting. The lieutenant thought he recognised Parkinson in the well-swathed form beside the driver, but there was no temptation to linger for a second on the steps. Already the stinging rain had lashed the drive into the semblance of a frothy estuary; all round the lightning jagged its course through the incessant tremulous glow of more distant lightning, while the thunder only ceased its muttering to turn at close quarters and crackle viciously. "One of the few things I regret missing," remarked Carrados tranquilly; "but I hear a good deal of colour in it." The car slushed its way down to the gate, lurched a little heavily across the dip into the road, and, steadying as it came upon the straight, began to hum contentedly along the deserted highway. "We are not going direct?" suddenly inquired Hollyer, after they had travelled perhaps half-a-dozen miles. The night was bewildering enough but he had the sailor's gift for location. "No; through Hunscott Green and then by a field-path to the orchard at the back," replied Carrados. "Keep a sharp look out for the man with the lantern about here, Harris," he called through the tube. "Something flashing just ahead, sir," came the reply, and the car slowed down and stopped. Carrados dropped the near window as a man in glistening waterproof stepped from the shelter of a lich-gate and approached. "Inspector Beedel, sir," said the stranger, looking into the car. "Quite right, Inspector," said Carrados. "Get in." "I have a man with me, sir." "We can find room for him as well." "We are very wet." "So shall we all be soon." The lieutenant changed his seat and the two burly forms took places side by side. In less than five minutes the car stopped again, this time in a grassy country lane. "Now we have to face it," announced Carrados. "The inspector will show us the way." The car slid round and disappeared into the night, while Beedel led the party to a stile in the hedge. A couple of fields brought them to the Brookbend boundary. There a figure stood out of the black foliage, exchanged a few words with their guide and piloted them along the shadows of the orchard to the back door of the house. "You will find a broken pane near the catch of the scullery window," said the blind man. "Right, sir," replied the inspector. "I have it. Now who goes through?" "Mr. Hollyer will open the door for us. I'm afraid you must take off your boots and all wet things, Lieutenant. We cannot risk a single spot inside." They waited until the back door opened, then each one divested himself in a similar manner and passed into the kitchen, where the remains of a fire still burned. The man from the orchard gathered together the discarded garments and disappeared again. Carrados turned to the lieutenant. "A rather delicate job for you now, Mr. Hollyer. I want you to go up to your sister, wake her, and get her into another room with as little fuss as possible. Tell her as much as you think fit and let her understand that her very life depends on absolute stillness when she is alone. Don't be unduly hurried, but not a glimmer of a light, please." Ten minutes passed by the measure of the battered old alarum on the dresser shelf before the young man returned. "I've had rather a time of it," he reported, with a nervous laugh, "but I think it will be all right now. She is in the spare room." "Then we will take our places. You and Parkinson come with me to the bedroom. Inspector, you have your own arrangements. Mr. Carlyle will be with you." They dispersed silently about the house. Hollyer glanced apprehensively at the door of the spare room as they passed it, but within was as quiet as the grave. Their room lay at the other end of the passage. "You may as well take your place in the bed now, Hollyer," directed Carrados when they were inside and the door closed. "Keep well down among the clothes. Creake has to get up on the balcony, you know, and he will probably peep through the window, but he dare come no farther. Then when he begins to throw up stones slip on this dressing-gown of your sister's. I'll tell you what to do after." The next sixty minutes drew out into the longest hour that the lieutenant had ever known. Occasionally he heard a whisper pass between the two men who stood behind the window curtains, but he could see nothing. Then Carrados threw a guarded remark in his direction. "He is in the garden now." Something scraped slightly against the outer wall. But the night was full of wilder sounds, and in the house the furniture and the boards creaked and sprung between the yawling of the wind among the chimneys, the rattle of the thunder and the pelting of the rain. It was a time to quicken the steadiest pulse, and when the crucial moment came, when a pebble suddenly rang against the pane with a sound that the tense waiting magnified into a shivering crash, Hollyer leapt from the bed on the instant. "Easy, easy," warned Carrados feelingly. "We will wait for another knock." He passed something across. "Here is a rubber glove. I have cut the wire but you had better put it on. Stand just for a moment at the window, move the catch so that it can blow open a little, and drop immediately. Now." Another stone had rattled against the glass. For Hollyer to go through his part was the work merely of seconds, and with a few touches Carrados spread the dressing-gown to more effective disguise about the extended form. But an unforeseen and in the circumstances rather horrible interval followed, for Creake, in accordance with some detail of his never-revealed plan, continued to shower missile after missile against the panes until even the unimpressionable Parkinson shivered. "The last act," whispered Carrados, a moment after the throwing had ceased. "He has gone round to the back. Keep as you are. We take cover now." He pressed behind the arras of an extemporized wardrobe, and the spirit of emptiness and desolation seemed once more to reign over the lonely house. From half-a-dozen places of concealment ears were straining to catch the first guiding sound. He moved very stealthily, burdened, perhaps, by some strange scruple in the presence of the tragedy that he had not feared to contrive, paused for a moment at the bedroom door, then opened it very quietly, and in the fickle light read the consummation of his hopes. "At last!" they heard the sharp whisper drawn from his relief. "At last!" He took another step and two shadows seemed to fall upon him from behind, one on either side. With primitive instinct a cry of terror and surprise escaped him as he made a desperate movement to wrench himself free, and for a short second he almost succeeded in dragging one hand into a pocket. Then his wrists slowly came together and the handcuffs closed. "I am Inspector Beedel," said the man on his right side. "You are charged with the attempted murder of your wife, Millicent Creake." "You are mad," retorted the miserable creature, falling into a desperate calmness. "She has been struck by lightning." "No, you blackguard, she hasn't," wrathfully exclaimed his brother-in-law, jumping up. "Would you like to see her?" "I also have to warn you," continued the inspector impassively, "that anything you say may be used as evidence against you." A startled cry from the farther end of the passage arrested their attention. "Mr. Carrados," called Hollyer, "oh, come at once." At the open door of the other bedroom stood the lieutenant, his eyes still turned towards something in the room beyond, a little empty bottle in his hand. "Dead!" he exclaimed tragically, with a sob, "with this beside her. Dead just when she would have been free of the brute." The blind man passed into the room, sniffed the air, and laid a gentle hand on the pulseless heart. "Yes," he replied. "That, Hollyer, does not always appeal to the woman, strange to say." THE LAST EXPLOIT OF HARRY THE ACTOR The one insignificant fact upon which turned the following incident in the joint experiences of Mr. Carlyle and Max Carrados was merely this: that having called upon his friend just at the moment when the private detective was on the point of leaving his office to go to the safe deposit in Lucas Street, Piccadilly, the blind amateur accompanied him, and for ten minutes amused himself by sitting quite quietly among the palms in the centre of the circular hall while Mr. Carlyle was occupied with his deed-box in one of the little compartments provided for the purpose. The Lucas Street depository was then (it has since been converted into a picture palace) generally accepted as being one of the strongest places in London. The front of the building was constructed to represent a gigantic safe door, and under the colloquial designation of "The Safe" the place had passed into a synonym for all that was secure and impregnable. Half of the marketable securities in the west of London were popularly reported to have seen the inside of its coffers at one time or another, together with the same generous proportion of family jewels. However exaggerated an estimate this might be, the substratum of truth was solid and auriferous enough to dazzle the imagination. When ordinary safes were being carried bodily away with impunity or ingeniously fused open by the scientifically equipped cracksman, nervous bond-holders turned with relief to the attractions of an establishment whose modest claim was summed up in its telegraphic address: "Impregnable." To it went also the jewel-case between the lady's social engagements, and when in due course "the family" journeyed north--or south, east or west--whenever, in short, the London house was closed, its capacious storerooms received the plate-chest as an established custom. Not a few traders also--jewellers, financiers, dealers in pictures, antiques and costly bijouterie, for instance--constantly used its facilities for any stock that they did not require immediately to hand. There was only one entrance to the place, an exaggerated keyhole, to carry out the similitude of the safe-door alluded to. The ground floor was occupied by the ordinary offices of the company; all the strong-rooms and safes lay in the steel-cased basement. This was reached both by a lift and by a flight of steps. In either case the visitor found before him a grille of massive proportions. Behind its bars stood a formidable commissionaire who never left his post, his sole duty being to open and close the grille to arriving and departing clients. Beyond this, a short passage led into the round central hall where Carrados was waiting. From this part, other passages radiated off to the vaults and strong-rooms, each one barred from the hall by a grille scarcely less ponderous than the first one. The doors of the various private rooms put at the disposal of the company's clients, and that of the manager's office, filled the wall-space between the radiating passages. Everything was very quiet, everything looked very bright, and everything seemed hopelessly impregnable. "But I wonder?" ran Carrados's dubious reflection as he reached this point. "Sorry to have kept you so long, my dear Max," broke in Mr. Carlyle's crisp voice. He had emerged from his compartment and was crossing the hall, deed-box in hand. "Another minute and I will be with you." Carrados smiled and nodded and resumed his former expression, which was merely that of an uninterested gentleman waiting patiently for another. It is something of an attainment to watch closely without betraying undue curiosity, but others of the senses--hearing and smelling, for instance--can be keenly engaged while the observer possibly has the appearance of falling asleep. "Now," announced Mr. Carlyle, returning briskly to his friend's chair, and drawing on his grey suède gloves. "You are in no particular hurry?" "No," admitted the professional man, with the slowness of mild surprise. "Not at all. What do you propose?" "It is very pleasant here," replied Carrados tranquilly. "Very cool and restful with this armoured steel between us and the dust and scurry of the hot July afternoon above. I propose remaining here for a few minutes longer." "Certainly," agreed Mr. Carlyle, taking the nearest chair and eyeing Carrados as though he had a shrewd suspicion of something more than met the ear. "I believe some very interesting people rent safes here. We may encounter a bishop, or a winning jockey, or even a musical comedy actress. Unfortunately it seems to be rather a slack time." "Two men came down while you were in your cubicle," remarked Carrados casually. "The first took the lift. I imagine that he was a middle-aged, rather portly man. He carried a stick, wore a silk hat, and used spectacles for close sight. The other came by the stairway. I infer that he arrived at the top immediately after the lift had gone. He ran down the steps, so that the two were admitted at the same time, but the second man, though the more active of the pair, hung back for a moment in the passage and the portly one was the first to go to his safe." Mr. Carlyle's knowing look expressed: "Go on, my friend; you are coming to something." But he merely contributed an encouraging "Yes?" "When you emerged just now our second man quietly opened the door of his pen a fraction. Doubtless he looked out. Then he closed it as quietly again. You were not his man, Louis." "I am grateful," said Mr. Carlyle expressively. "What next, Max?" "That is all; they are still closeted." Both were silent for a moment. Mr. Carlyle's feeling was one of unconfessed perplexity. So far the incident was utterly trivial in his eyes; but he knew that the trifles which appeared significant to Max had a way of standing out like signposts when the time came to look back over an episode. Carrados's sightless faculties seemed indeed to keep him just a move ahead as the game progressed. "Is there really anything in it, Max?" he asked at length. "Who can say?" replied Carrados. "At least we may wait to see them go. Those tin deed-boxes now. There is one to each safe, I think?" "Yes, so I imagine. The practice is to carry the box to your private lair and there unlock it and do your business. Then you lock it up again and take it back to your safe." "Steady! our first man," whispered Carrados hurriedly. "Here, look at this with me." He opened a paper--a prospectus--which he pulled from his pocket, and they affected to study its contents together. "You were about right, my friend," muttered Mr. Carlyle, pointing to a paragraph of assumed interest. "Hat, stick and spectacles. He is a clean-shaven, pink-faced old boy. I believe--yes, I know the man by sight. He is a bookmaker in a large way, I am told." "Here comes the other," whispered Carrados. The bookmaker passed across the hall, joined on his way by the manager whose duty it was to counterlock the safe, and disappeared along one of the passages. The second man sauntered up and down, waiting his turn. Mr. Carlyle reported his movements in an undertone and described him. He was a younger man than the other, of medium height, and passably well dressed in a quiet lounge suit, green Alpine hat and brown shoes. By the time the detective had reached his wavy chestnut hair, large and rather ragged moustache, and sandy, freckled complexion, the first man had completed his business and was leaving the place. "It isn't an exchange lay, at all events," said Mr. Carlyle. "His inner case is only half the size of the other and couldn't possibly be substituted." "Come up now," said Carrados, rising. "There is nothing more to be learned down here." They requisitioned the lift, and on the steps outside the gigantic keyhole stood for a few minutes discussing an investment as a couple of trustees or a lawyer and a client who were parting there might do. Fifty yards away, a very large silk hat with a very curly brim marked the progress of the bookmaker towards Piccadilly. The lift in the hall behind them swirled up again and the gate clashed. The second man walked leisurely out and sauntered away without a backward glance. "He has gone in the opposite direction," exclaimed Mr. Carlyle, rather blankly. "It isn't the 'lame goat' nor the 'follow-me-on,' nor even the homely but efficacious sand-bag." "What colour were his eyes?" asked Carrados. "Upon my word, I never noticed," admitted the other. "Parkinson would have noticed," was the severe comment. "I am not Parkinson," retorted Mr. Carlyle, with asperity, "and, strictly as one dear friend to another, Max, permit me to add, that while cherishing an unbounded admiration for your remarkable gifts, I have the strongest suspicion that the whole incident is a ridiculous mare's nest, bred in the fantastic imagination of an enthusiastic criminologist." Mr. Carrados received this outburst with the utmost benignity. "Come and have a coffee, Louis," he suggested. "Mehmed's is only a street away." Mehmed proved to be a cosmopolitan gentleman from Mocha whose shop resembled a house from the outside and an Oriental divan when one was within. A turbaned Arab placed cigarettes and cups of coffee spiced with saffron before the customers, gave salaam and withdrew. "You know, my dear chap," continued Mr. Carlyle, sipping his black coffee and wondering privately whether it was really very good or very bad, "speaking quite seriously, the one fishy detail--our ginger friend's watching for the other to leave--may be open to a dozen very innocent explanations." "So innocent that to-morrow I intend taking a safe myself." "You think that everything is all right?" "On the contrary, I am convinced that something is very wrong." "Then why--?" "I shall keep nothing there, but it will give me the _entrée_. I should advise you, Louis, in the first place to empty your safe with all possible speed, and in the second to leave your business card on the manager." Mr. Carlyle pushed his cup away, convinced now that the coffee was really very bad. "But, my dear Max, the place--'The Safe'--is impregnable!" "When I was in the States, three years ago, the head porter at one hotel took pains to impress on me that the building was absolutely fireproof. I at once had my things taken off to another hotel. Two weeks later the first place was burnt out. It _was_ fireproof, I believe, but of course the furniture and the fittings were not and the walls gave way." "Very ingenious," admitted Mr. Carlyle, "but why did you really go? You know you can't humbug me with your superhuman sixth sense, my friend." Carrados smiled pleasantly, thereby encouraging the watchful attendant to draw near and replenish their tiny cups. "Perhaps," replied the blind man, "because so many careless people were satisfied that it was fireproof." "Ah-ha, there you are--the greater the confidence the greater the risk. But only if your self-confidence results in carelessness. Now do you know how this place is secured, Max?" "I am told that they lock the door at night," replied Carrados, with bland malice. "And hide the key under the mat to be ready for the first arrival in the morning," crowed Mr. Carlyle, in the same playful spirit. "Dear old chap! Well, let me tell you--" "That force is out of the question. Quite so," admitted his friend. "That simplifies the argument. Let us consider fraud. There again the precautions are so rigid that many people pronounce the forms a nuisance. I confess that I do not. I regard them as a means of protecting my own property and I cheerfully sign my name and give my password, which the manager compares with his record-book before he releases the first lock of my safe. The signature is burned before my eyes in a sort of crucible there, the password is of my own choosing and is written only in a book that no one but the manager ever sees, and my key is the sole one in existence." "No duplicate or master-key?" "Neither. If a key is lost it takes a skilful mechanic half-a-day to cut his way in. Then you must remember that clients of a safe-deposit are not multitudinous. All are known more or less by sight to the officials there, and a stranger would receive close attention. Now, Max, by what combination of circumstances is a rogue to know my password, to be able to forge my signature, to possess himself of my key, and to resemble me personally? And, finally, how is he possibly to determine beforehand whether there is anything in my safe to repay so elaborate a plant?" Mr. Carlyle concluded in triumph and was so carried away by the strength of his position that he drank off the contents of his second cup before he realized what he was doing. "At the hotel I just spoke of," replied Carrados, "there was an attendant whose one duty in case of alarm was to secure three iron doors. On the night of the fire he had a bad attack of toothache and slipped away for just a quarter of an hour to have the thing out. There was a most up-to-date system of automatic fire alarm; it had been tested only the day before and the electrician, finding some part not absolutely to his satisfaction, had taken it away and not had time to replace it. The night watchman, it turned out, had received leave to present himself a couple of hours later on that particular night, and the hotel fireman, whose duties he took over, had missed being notified. Lastly, there was a big riverside blaze at the same time and all the engines were down at the other end of the city." Mr. Carlyle committed himself to a dubious monosyllable. Carrados leaned forward a little. "All these circumstances formed a coincidence of pure chance. Is it not conceivable, Louis, that an even more remarkable series might be brought about by design?" "Our tawny friend?" "Possibly. Only he was not really tawny." Mr. Carlyle's easy attitude suddenly stiffened into rigid attention. "He wore a false moustache." "He wore a false moustache!" repeated the amazed gentleman. "And you cannot see! No, really, Max, this is beyond the limit!" "If only you would not trust your dear, blundering old eyes so implicitly you would get nearer that limit yourself," retorted Carrados. "The man carried a five-yard aura of spirit gum, emphasized by a warm, perspiring skin. That inevitably suggested one thing. I looked for further evidence of making-up and found it--these preparations all smell. The hair you described was characteristically that of a wig--worn long to hide the joining and made wavy to minimize the length. All these things are trifles. As yet we have not gone beyond the initial stage of suspicion. I will tell you another trifle. When this man retired to a compartment with his deed-box, he never even opened it. Possibly it contains a brick and a newspaper. He is only watching." "Watching the bookmaker." "True, but it may go far wider than that. Everything points to a plot of careful elaboration. Still, if you are satisfied--" "I am quite satisfied," replied Mr. Carlyle gallantly. "I regard 'The Safe' almost as a national institution, and as such I have an implicit faith in its precautions against every kind of force or fraud." So far Mr. Carlyle's attitude had been suggestive of a rock, but at this point he took out his watch, hummed a little to pass the time, consulted his watch again, and continued: "I am afraid that there were one or two papers which I overlooked. It would perhaps save me coming again to-morrow if I went back now--" "Quite so," acquiesced Carrados, with perfect gravity. "I will wait for you." For twenty minutes he sat there, drinking an occasional tiny cup of boiled coffee and to all appearance placidly enjoying the quaint atmosphere which Mr. Mehmed had contrived to transplant from the shores of the Persian Gulf. At the end of that period Carlyle returned, politely effusive about the time he had kept his friend waiting but otherwise bland and unassailable. Anyone with eyes might have noticed that he carried a parcel of about the same size and dimensions as the deed-box that fitted his safe. The next day Carrados presented himself at the safe-deposit as an intending renter. The manager showed him over the vaults and strong-rooms, explaining the various precautions taken to render the guile or force of man impotent: the strength of the chilled-steel walls, the casing of electricity-resisting concrete, the stupendous isolation of the whole inner fabric on metal pillars so that the watchman, while inside the building, could walk above, below, and all round the outer walls of what was really--although it bore no actual relationship to the advertising device of the front--a monstrous safe; and, finally, the arrangement which would enable the basement to be flooded with steam within three minutes of an alarm. These details were public property. "The Safe" was a showplace and its directors held that no harm could come of displaying a strong hand. Accompanied by the observant eyes of Parkinson, Carrados gave an adventurous but not a hopeful attention to these particulars. Submitting the problem of the tawny man to his own ingenuity, he was constantly putting before himself the question: How shall I set about robbing this place? and he had already dismissed force as impracticable. Nor, when it came to the consideration of fraud, did the simple but effective safeguards which Mr. Carlyle had specified seem to offer any loophole. "As I am blind I may as well sign in the book," he suggested, when the manager passed him a gummed slip for the purpose. The precaution against one acquiring particulars of another client might well be deemed superfluous in his case. But the manager did not fall into the trap. "It is our invariable rule in all cases, sir," he replied courteously. "What word will you take?" Parkinson, it may be said, had been left in the hall. "Suppose I happen to forget it? How do we proceed?" "In that case I am afraid that I might have to trouble you to establish your identity," the manager explained. "It rarely happens." "Then we will say 'Conspiracy.'" The word was written down and the book closed. "Here is your key, sir. If you will allow me--your key-ring--" A week went by and Carrados was no nearer the absolute solution of the problem he had set himself. He had, indeed, evolved several ways by which the contents of the safes might be reached, some simple and desperate, hanging on the razor-edge of chance to fall this way or that; others more elaborate, safer on the whole, but more liable to break down at some point of their ingenious intricacy. And setting aside complicity on the part of the manager--a condition that Carrados had satisfied himself did not exist--they all depended on a relaxation of the forms by which security was assured. Carrados continued to have several occasions to visit the safe during the week, and he "watched" with a quiet persistence that was deadly in its scope. But from beginning to end there was no indication of slackness in the business-like methods of the place; nor during any of his visits did the "tawny man" appear in that or any other disguise. Another week passed; Mr. Carlyle was becoming inexpressibly waggish, and Carrados himself, although he did not abate a jot of his conviction, was compelled to bend to the realities of the situation. The manager, with the obstinacy of a conscientious man who had become obsessed with the pervading note of security, excused himself from discussing abstract methods of fraud. Carrados was not in a position to formulate a detailed charge; he withdrew from active investigation, content to await his time. It came, to be precise, on a certain Friday morning, seventeen days after his first visit to "The Safe." Returning late on the Thursday night, he was informed that a man giving the name of Draycott had called to see him. Apparently the matter had been of some importance to the visitor for he had returned three hours later on the chance of finding Mr. Carrados in. Disappointed in this, he had left a note. Carrados cut open the envelope and ran a finger along the following words:-- "_Dear Sir_,--I have to-day consulted Mr. Louis Carlyle, who thinks that you would like to see me. I will call again in the morning, say at nine o'clock. If this is too soon or otherwise inconvenient I entreat you to leave a message fixing as early an hour as possible. "Yours faithfully, "_Herbert Draycott_. "_P.S._--I should add that I am the renter of a safe at the Lucas Street depository. _H.D._" A description of Mr. Draycott made it clear that he was not the West-End bookmaker. The caller, the servant explained, was a thin, wiry, keen-faced man. Carrados felt agreeably interested in this development, which seemed to justify his suspicion of a plot. At five minutes to nine the next morning Mr. Draycott again presented himself. "Very good of you to see me so soon, sir," he apologized, on Carrados at once receiving him. "I don't know much of English ways--I'm an Australian--and I was afraid it might be too early." "You could have made it a couple of hours earlier as far as I am concerned," replied Carrados. "Or you either for that matter, I imagine," he added, "for I don't think that you slept much last night." "I didn't sleep at all last night," corrected Mr. Draycott. "But it's strange that you should have seen that. I understood from Mr. Carlyle that you--excuse me if I am mistaken, sir--but I understood that you were blind." Carrados laughed his admission lightly. "Oh yes," he said. "But never mind that. What is the trouble?" "I'm afraid it means more than just trouble for me, Mr. Carrados." The man had steady, half-closed eyes, with the suggestion of depth which one notices in the eyes of those whose business it is to look out over great expanses of land or water; they were turned towards Carrados's face with quiet resignation in their frankness now. "I'm afraid it spells disaster. I am a working engineer from the Mount Magdalena district of Coolgardie. I don't want to take up your time with outside details, so I will only say that about two years ago I had an opportunity of acquiring a share in a very promising claim--gold, you understand, both reef and alluvial. As the work went on I put more and more into the undertaking--you couldn't call it a venture by that time. The results were good, better than we had dared to expect, but from one cause and another the expenses were terrible. We saw that it was a bigger thing than we had bargained for and we admitted that we must get outside help." So far Mr. Draycott's narrative had proceeded smoothly enough under the influence of the quiet despair that had come over the man. But at this point a sudden recollection of his position swept him into a frenzy of bitterness. "Oh, what the blazes is the good of going over all this again!" he broke out. "What can you or anyone else do anyhow? I've been robbed, rooked, cleared out of everything I possess," and tormented by recollections and by the impotence of his rage the unfortunate engineer beat the oak table with the back of his hand until his knuckles bled. Carrados waited until the fury had passed. "Continue, if you please, Mr. Draycott," he said. "Just what you thought it best to tell me is just what I want to know." "I'm sorry, sir," apologized the man, colouring under his tanned skin. "I ought to be able to control myself better. But this business has shaken me. Three times last night I looked down the barrel of my revolver, and three times I threw it away.... Well, we arranged that I should come to London to interest some financiers in the property. We might have done it locally or in Perth, to be sure, but then, don't you see, they would have wanted to get control. Six weeks ago I landed here. I brought with me specimens of the quartz and good samples of extracted gold, dust and nuggets, the clearing up of several weeks' working, about two hundred and forty ounces in all. That includes the Magdalena Lodestar, our lucky nugget, a lump weighing just under seven pounds of pure gold. "I had seen an advertisement of this Lucas Street safe-deposit and it seemed just the thing I wanted. Besides the gold, I had all the papers to do with the claims--plans, reports, receipts, licences and so on. Then when I cashed my letter of credit I had about one hundred and fifty pounds in notes. Of course I could have left everything at a bank, but it was more convenient to have it, as it were, in my own safe, to get at any time, and to have a private room that I could take any gentlemen to. I hadn't a suspicion that anything could be wrong. Negotiations hung on in several quarters--it's a bad time to do business here, I find. Then, yesterday, I wanted something. I went to Lucas Street, as I had done half-a-dozen times before, opened my safe, and had the inner case carried to a room.... Mr. Carrados, it was empty!" "Quite empty?" "No." He laughed bitterly. "At the bottom was a sheet of wrapper paper. I recognized it as a piece I had left there in case I wanted to make up a parcel. But for that I should have been convinced that I had somehow opened the wrong safe. That was my first idea." "It cannot be done." "So I understand, sir. And, then, there was the paper with my name written on it in the empty tin. I was dazed; it seemed impossible. I think I stood there without moving for minutes--it was more like hours. Then I closed the tin box again, took it back, locked up the safe and came out." "Without notifying anything wrong?" "Yes, Mr. Carrados." The steady blue eyes regarded him with pained thoughtfulness. "You see, I reckoned it out in that time that it must be someone about the place who had done it." "You were wrong," said Carrados. "So Mr. Carlyle seemed to think. I only knew that the key had never been out of my possession and I had told no one of the password. Well, it did come over me rather like cold water down the neck, that there was I alone in the strongest dungeon in London and not a living soul knew where I was." "Possibly a sort of up-to-date Sweeney Todd's?" "I'd heard of such things in London," admitted Draycott. "Anyway, I got out. It was a mistake; I see it now. Who is to believe me as it is--it sounds a sort of unlikely tale. And how do they come to pick on me? to know what I had? I don't drink, or open my mouth, or hell round. It beats me." "They didn't pick on you--you picked on them," replied Carrados. "Never mind how; you'll be believed all right. But as for getting anything back--" The unfinished sentence confirmed Mr. Draycott in his gloomiest anticipations. "I have the numbers of the notes," he suggested, with an attempt at hopefulness. "They can be stopped, I take it?" "Stopped? Yes," admitted Carrados. "And what does that amount to? The banks and the police stations will be notified and every little public-house between here and Land's End will change one for the scribbling of 'John Jones' across the back. No, Mr. Draycott, it's awkward, I dare say, but you must make up your mind to wait until you can get fresh supplies from home. Where are you staying?" Draycott hesitated. "I have been at the Abbotsford, in Bloomsbury, up to now," he said, with some embarrassment. "The fact is, Mr. Carrados, I think I ought to have told you how I was placed before consulting you, because I--I see no prospect of being able to pay my way. Knowing that I had plenty in the safe, I had run it rather close. I went chiefly yesterday to get some notes. I have a week's hotel bill in my pocket, and"--he glanced down at his trousers--"I've ordered one or two other things unfortunately." "That will be a matter of time, doubtless," suggested the other encouragingly. Instead of replying Draycott suddenly dropped his arms on to the table and buried his face between them. A minute passed in silence. "It's no good, Mr. Carrados," he said, when he was able to speak. "I can't meet it. Say what you like, I simply can't tell those chaps that I've lost everything we had and ask them to send me more. They couldn't do it if I did. Understand sir. The mine is a valuable one; we have the greatest faith in it, but it has gone beyond our depth. The three of us have put everything we own into it. While I am here they are doing labourers' work for a wage, just to keep going ... waiting, oh, my God! waiting for good news from me!" Carrados walked round the table to his desk and wrote. Then, without a word, he held out a paper to his visitor. "What's this?" demanded Draycott, in bewilderment. "It's--it's a cheque for a hundred pounds." "It will carry you on," explained Carrados imperturbably. "A man like you isn't going to throw up the sponge for this set-back. Cable to your partners that you require copies of all the papers at once. They'll manage it, never fear. The gold ... must go. Write fully by the next mail. Tell them everything and add that in spite of all you feel that you are nearer success than ever." Mr. Draycott folded the cheque with thoughtful deliberation and put it carefully away in his pocket-book. "I don't know whether you've guessed as much, sir," he said in a queer voice, "but I think that you've saved a man's life to-day. It's not the money, it's the encouragement ... and faith. If you could see you'd know better than I can say how I feel about it." Carrados laughed quietly. It always amused him to have people explain how much more he would learn if he had eyes. "Then we'll go on to Lucas Street and give the manager the shock of his life," was all he said. "Come, Mr. Draycott, I have already rung up the car." But, as it happened, another instrument had been destined to apply that stimulating experience to the manager. As they stepped out of the car opposite "The Safe" a taxicab drew up and Mr. Carlyle's alert and cheery voice hailed them. "A moment, Max," he called, turning to settle with his driver, a transaction that he invested with an air of dignified urbanity which almost made up for any small pecuniary disappointment that may have accompanied it. "This is indeed fortunate. Let us compare notes for a moment. I have just received an almost imploring message from the manager to come at once. I assumed that it was the affair of our colonial friend here, but he went on to mention Professor Holmfast Bulge. Can it really be possible that he also has made a similar discovery?" "What did the manager say?" asked Carrados. "He was practically incoherent, but I really think it must be so. What have you done?" "Nothing," replied Carrados. He turned his back on "The Safe" and appeared to be regarding the other side of the street. "There is a tobacconist's shop directly opposite?" "There is." "What do they sell on the first floor?" "Possibly they sell 'Rubbo.' I hazard the suggestion from the legend 'Rub in Rubbo for Everything' which embellishes each window." "The windows are frosted?" "They are, to half-way up, mysterious man." Carrados walked back to his motor-car. "While we are away, Parkinson, go across and buy a tin, bottle, box or packet of 'Rubbo.'" "What is 'Rubbo,' Max?" chirped Mr. Carlyle with insatiable curiosity. "So far we do not know. When Parkinson gets some, Louis, you shall be the one to try it." They descended into the basement and were passed in by the grille-keeper, whose manner betrayed a discreet consciousness of something in the air. It was unnecessary to speculate why. In the distance, muffled by the armoured passages, an authoritative voice boomed like a sonorous bell heard under water. "What, however, are the facts?" it was demanding, with the causticity of baffled helplessness. "I am assured that there is no other key in existence; yet my safe has been unlocked. I am given to understand that without the password it would be impossible for an unauthorized person to tamper with my property. My password, deliberately chosen, is 'anthropophaginian,' sir. Is it one that is familiarly on the lips of the criminal classes? But my safe is empty! What is the explanation? Who are the guilty persons? What is being done? Where are the police?" "If you consider that the proper course to adopt is to stand on the doorstep and beckon in the first constable who happens to pass, permit me to say, sir, that I differ from you," retorted the distracted manager. "You may rely on everything possible being done to clear up the mystery. As I told you, I have already telephoned for a capable private detective and for one of my directors." "But that is not enough," insisted the professor angrily. "Will one mere private detective restore my £6000 Japanese 4-1/2 per cent. bearer bonds? Is the return of my irreplaceable notes on 'Polyphyletic Bridal Customs among the mid-Pleistocene Cave Men' to depend on a solitary director? I demand that the police shall be called in--as many as are available. Let Scotland Yard be set in motion. A searching inquiry must be made. I have only been a user of your precious establishment for six months, and this is the result." "There you hold the key of the mystery, Professor Bulge," interposed Carrados quietly. "Who is this, sir?" demanded the exasperated professor at large. "Permit me," explained Mr. Carlyle, with bland assurance. "I am Louis Carlyle, of Bampton Street. This gentleman is Mr. Max Carrados, the eminent amateur specialist in crime." "I shall be thankful for any assistance towards elucidating this appalling business," condescended the professor sonorously. "Let me put you in possession of the facts--" "Perhaps if we went into your room," suggested Carrados to the manager, "we should be less liable to interruption." "Quite so; quite so," boomed the professor, accepting the proposal on everyone else's behalf. "The facts, sir, are these: I am the unfortunate possessor of a safe here, in which, a few months ago, I deposited--among less important matter--sixty bearer bonds of the Japanese Imperial Loan--the bulk of my small fortune--and the manuscript of an important projected work on 'Polyphyletic Bridal Customs among the mid-Pleistocene Cave Men.' Today I came to detach the coupons which fall due on the fifteenth; to pay them into my bank a week in advance, in accordance with my custom. What do I find? I find the safe locked and apparently intact, as when I last saw it a month ago. But it is far from being intact, sir! It has been opened, ransacked, cleared out! Not a single bond, not a scrap of paper remains." It was obvious that the manager's temperature had been rising during the latter part of this speech and now he boiled over. "Pardon my flatly contradicting you, Professor Bulge. You have again referred to your visit here a month ago as your last. You will bear witness of that, gentlemen. When I inform you that the professor had access to his safe as recently as on Monday last you will recognize the importance that the statement may assume." The professor glared across the room like an infuriated animal, a comparison heightened by his notoriously hircine appearance. "How dare you contradict me, sir!" he cried, slapping the table sharply with his open hand. "I was not here on Monday." The manager shrugged his shoulders coldly. "You forget that the attendants also saw you," he remarked. "Cannot we trust our own eyes?" "A common assumption, yet not always a strictly reliable one," insinuated Carrados softly. "I cannot be mistaken." "Then can you tell me, without looking, what colour Professor Bulge's eyes are?" There was a curious and expectant silence for a minute. The professor turned his back on the manager and the manager passed from thoughtfulness to embarrassment. "I really do not know, Mr. Carrados," he declared loftily at last. "I do not refer to mere trifles like that." "Then you can be mistaken," replied Carrados mildly yet with decision. "But the ample hair, the venerable flowing beard, the prominent nose and heavy eyebrows--" "These are just the striking points that are most easily counterfeited. They 'take the eye.' If you would ensure yourself against deception, learn rather to observe the eye itself, and particularly the spots on it, the shape of the finger-nails, the set of the ears. These things cannot be simulated." "You seriously suggest that the man was not Professor Bulge--that he was an impostor?" "The conclusion is inevitable. Where were you on Monday, Professor?" "I was on a short lecturing tour in the Midlands. On Saturday I was in Nottingham. On Monday in Birmingham. I did not return to London until yesterday." Carrados turned to the manager again and indicated Draycott, who so far had remained in the background. "And this gentleman? Did he by any chance come here on Monday?" "He did not, Mr. Carrados. But I gave him access to his safe on Tuesday afternoon and again yesterday." Draycott shook his head sadly. "Yesterday I found it empty," he said. "And all Tuesday afternoon I was at Brighton, trying to see a gentleman on business." The manager sat down very suddenly. "Good God, another!" he exclaimed faintly. "I am afraid the list is only beginning," said Carrados. "We must go through your renters' book." The manager roused himself to protest. "That cannot be done. No one but myself or my deputy ever sees the book. It would be--unprecedented." "The circumstances are unprecedented," replied Carrados. "If any difficulties are placed in the way of these gentlemen's investigations, I shall make it my duty to bring the facts before the Home Secretary," announced the professor, speaking up to the ceiling with the voice of a brazen trumpet. Carrados raised a deprecating hand. "May I make a suggestion?" he remarked. "Now, I am blind. If, therefore--?" "Very well," acquiesced the manager. "But I must request the others to withdraw." For five minutes Carrados followed the list of safe-renters as the manager read them to him. Sometimes he stopped the catalogue to reflect a moment; now and then he brushed a finger-tip over a written signature and compared it with another. Occasionally a password interested him. But when the list came to an end he continued to look into space without any sign of enlightenment. "So much is perfectly clear and yet so much is incredible," he mused. "You insist that you alone have been in charge for the last six months?" "I have not been away a day this year." "Meals?" "I have my lunch sent in." "And this room could not be entered without your knowledge while you were about the place?" "It is impossible. The door is fitted with a powerful spring and a feather-touch self-acting lock. It cannot be left unlocked unless you deliberately prop it open." "And, with your knowledge, no one has had an opportunity of having access to this book?" "No," was the reply. Carrados stood up and began to put on his gloves. "Then I must decline to pursue my investigation any further," he said icily. "Why?" stammered the manager. "Because I have positive reason for believing that you are deceiving me." "Pray sit down, Mr. Carrados. It is quite true that when you put the last question to me a circumstance rushed into my mind which--so far as the strict letter was concerned--might seem to demand 'Yes' instead of 'No.' But not in the spirit of your inquiry. It would be absurd to attach any importance to the incident I refer to." "That would be for me to judge." "You shall do so, Mr. Carrados. I live at Windermere Mansions with my sister. A few months ago she got to know a married couple who had recently come to the opposite flat. The husband was a middle-aged, scholarly man who spent most of his time in the British Museum. His wife's tastes were different; she was much younger, brighter, gayer; a mere girl in fact, one of the most charming and unaffected I have ever met. My sister Amelia does not readily--" "Stop!" exclaimed Carrados. "A studious middle-aged man and a charming young wife! Be as brief as possible. If there is any chance it may turn on a matter of minutes at the ports. She came here, of course?" "Accompanied by her husband," replied the manager stiffly. "Mrs. Scott had travelled and she had a hobby of taking photographs wherever she went. When my position accidentally came out one evening she was carried away by the novel idea of adding views of a safe deposit to her collection--as enthusiastic as a child. There was no reason why she should not; the place has often been taken for advertising purposes." "She came, and brought her camera--under your very nose!" "I do not know what you mean by 'under my very nose.' She came with her husband one evening just about closing time. She brought her camera, of course--quite a small affair." "And contrived to be in here alone?" "I take exception to the word 'contrived.' It--it happened. I sent out for some tea, and in the course--" "How long was she alone in here?" "Two or three minutes at the most. When I returned she was seated at my desk. That was what I referred to. The little rogue had put on my glasses and had got hold of a big book. We were great chums, and she delighted to mock me. I confess that I was startled--merely instinctively--to see that she had taken up this book, but the next moment I saw that she had it upside down." "Clever! She couldn't get it away in time. And the camera, with half-a-dozen of its specially sensitized films already snapped over the last few pages, by her side!" "That child!" "Yes. She is twenty-seven and has kicked hats off tall men's heads in every capital from Petersburg to Buenos Ayres! Get through to Scotland Yard and ask if Inspector Beedel can come up." The manager breathed heavily through his nose. "To call in the police and publish everything would ruin this establishment--confidence would be gone. I cannot do it without further authority." "Then the professor certainly will." "Before you came I rang up the only director who is at present in town and gave him the facts as they then stood. Possibly he has arrived by this. If you will accompany me to the boardroom we will see." They went up to the floor above, Mr. Carlyle joining them on the way. "Excuse me a moment," said the manager. Parkinson, who had been having an improving conversation with the hall porter on the subject of land values, approached. "I am sorry, sir," he reported, "but I was unable to procure any 'Rubbo.' The place appears to be shut up." "That is a pity; Mr. Carlyle had set his heart on it." "Will you come this way, please?" said the manager, reappearing. In the boardroom they found a white-haired old gentleman who had obeyed the manager's behest from a sense of duty, and then remained in a distant corner of the empty room in the hope that he might be over-looked. He was amiably helpless and appeared to be deeply aware of it. "This is a very sad business, gentlemen," he said, in a whispering, confiding voice. "I am informed that you recommend calling in the Scotland Yard authorities. That would be a disastrous course for an institution that depends on the implicit confidence of the public." "It is the only course," replied Carrados. "The name of Mr. Carrados is well known to us in connection with a delicate case. Could you not carry this one through?" "It is impossible. A wide inquiry must be made. Every port will have to be watched. The police alone can do that." He threw a little significance into the next sentence. "I alone can put the police in the right way of doing it." "And you will do that, Mr. Carrados?" Carrados smiled engagingly. He knew exactly what constituted the great attraction of his services. "My position is this," he explained. "So far my work has been entirely amateur. In that capacity I have averted one or two crimes, remedied an occasional injustice, and now and then been of service to my professional friend, Louis Carlyle. But there is no reason at all why I should serve a commercial firm in an ordinary affair of business for nothing. For any information I should require a fee, a quite nominal fee of, say, one hundred pounds." The director looked as though his faith in human nature had received a rude blow. "A hundred pounds would be a very large initial fee for a small firm like this, Mr. Carrados," he remarked in a pained voice. "And that, of course, would be independent of Mr. Carlyle's professional charges," added Carrados. "Is that sum contingent on any specific performance?" inquired the manager. "I do not mind making it conditional on my procuring for you, for the police to act on, a photograph and a description of the thief." The two officials conferred apart for a moment. Then the manager returned. "We will agree, Mr. Carrados, on the understanding that these things are to be in our hands within two days. Failing that--" "No, no!" cried Mr. Carlyle indignantly, but Carrados good-humouredly put him aside. "I will accept the condition in the same sporting spirit that inspires it. Within forty-eight hours or no pay. The cheque, of course, to be given immediately the goods are delivered?" "You may rely on that." Carrados took out his pocket-book, produced an envelope bearing an American stamp, and from it extracted an unmounted print. "Here is the photograph," he announced. "The man is called Ulysses K. Groom, but he is better known as 'Harry the Actor.' You will find the description written on the back." Five minutes later, when they were alone, Mr. Carlyle expressed his opinion of the transaction. "You are an unmitigated humbug, Max," he said, "though an amiable one, I admit. But purely for your own private amusement you spring these things on people." "On the contrary," replied Carrados, "people spring these things on me." "Now this photograph. Why have I heard nothing of it before?" Carrados took out his watch and touched the fingers. "It is now three minutes to eleven. I received the photograph at twenty past eight." "Even then, an hour ago you assured me that you had done nothing." "Nor had I--so far as result went. Until the keystone of the edifice was wrung from the manager in his room, I was as far away from demonstrable certainty as ever." "So am I--as yet," hinted Mr. Carlyle. "I am coming to that, Louis. I turn over the whole thing to you. The man has got two clear days' start and the chances are nine to one against catching him. We know everything, and the case has no further interest for me. But it is your business. Here is your material. "On that one occasion when the 'tawny' man crossed our path, I took from the first a rather more serious view of his scope and intention than you did. The same day I sent a cipher cable to Pierson of the New York service. I asked for news of any man of such and such a description--merely negative--who was known to have left the States; an educated man, expert in the use of disguises, audacious in his operations, and a specialist in 'dry' work among banks and strong-rooms." "Why the States, Max?" "That was a sighting shot on my part. I argued that he must be an English-speaking man. The smart and inventive turn of the modern Yank has made him a specialist in ingenious devices, straight or crooked. Unpickable locks and invincible lock-pickers, burglar-proof safes and safe-specializing burglars, come equally from the States. So I tried a very simple test. As we talked that day and the man walked past us, I dropped the words 'New York'--or, rather, 'Noo Y'rk'--in his hearing." "I know you did. He neither turned nor stopped." "He was that much on his guard; but into his step there came--though your poor old eyes could not see it, Louis--the 'psychological pause,' an absolute arrest of perhaps a fifth of a second; just as it would have done with you if the word 'London' had fallen on your ear in a distant land. However, the whys and the wherefores don't matter. Here is the essential story. "Eighteen months ago 'Harry the Actor' successfully looted the office safe of M'Kenkie, J.F. Higgs & Co., of Cleveland, Ohio. He had just married a smart but very facile third-rate vaudeville actress--English by origin--and wanted money for the honeymoon. He got about five hundred pounds, and with that they came to Europe and stayed in London for some months. That period is marked by the Congreave Square post office burglary, you may remember. While studying such of the British institutions as most appealed to him, the 'Actor's' attention became fixed on this safe-deposit. Possibly the implied challenge contained in its telegraphic address grew on him until it became a point of professional honour with him to despoil it; at all events he was presumedly attracted by an undertaking that promised not only glory but very solid profit. The first part of the plot was, to the most skilful criminal 'impersonator' in the States, mere skittles. Spreading over those months he appeared at 'The Safe' in twelve different characters and rented twelve safes of different sizes. At the same time he made a thorough study of the methods of the place. As soon as possible he got the keys back again into legitimate use, having made duplicates for his own private ends, of course. Five he seems to have returned during his first stay; one was received later, with profuse apologies, by registered post; one was returned through a leading Berlin bank. Six months ago he made a flying visit here, purely to work off two more. One he kept from first to last, and the remaining couple he got in at the beginning of his second long residence here, three or four months ago. "This brings us to the serious part of the cool enterprise. He had funds from the Atlantic and South-Central Mail-car coup when he arrived here last April. He appears to have set up three establishments; a home, in the guise of an elderly scholar with a young wife, which, of course, was next door to our friend the manager; an observation point, over which he plastered the inscription 'Rub in Rubbo for Everything' as a reason for being; and, somewhere else, a dressing-room with essential conditions of two doors into different streets. "About six weeks ago he entered the last stage. Mrs. Harry, with quite ridiculous ease, got photographs of the necessary page or two of the record-book. I don't doubt that for weeks before then everyone who entered the place had been observed, but the photographs linked them up with the actual men into whose hands the 'Actor's' old keys had passed--gave their names and addresses, the numbers of their safes, their passwords and signatures. The rest was easy." "Yes, by Jupiter; mere play for a man like that," agreed Mr. Carlyle, with professional admiration. "He could contrive a dozen different occasions for studying the voice and manner and appearance of his victims. How much has he cleared?" "We can only speculate as yet. I have put my hand on seven doubtful callers on Monday and Tuesday last. Two others he had ignored for some reason; the remaining two safes had not been allotted. There is one point that raises an interesting speculation." "What is that, Max?" "The 'Actor' has one associate, a man known as 'Billy the Fondant,' but beyond that--with the exception of his wife, of course--he does not usually trust anyone. It is plain, however, that at least seven men must latterly have been kept under close observation. It has occurred to me--" "Yes, Max?" "I have wondered whether Harry has enlisted the innocent services of one or other of our private inquiry offices." "Scarcely," smiled the professional. "It would hardly pass muster." "Oh, I don't know. Mrs. Harry, in the character of a jealous wife or a suspicious sweetheart, might reasonably--" Mr. Carlyle's smile suddenly faded. "By Jupiter!" he exclaimed. "I remember--" "Yes, Louis?" prompted Carrados, with laughter in his voice. "I remember that I must telephone to a client before Beedel comes," concluded Mr. Carlyle, rising in some haste. At the door he almost ran into the subdued director, who was wringing his hands in helpless protest at a new stroke of calamity. "Mr. Carrados," wailed the poor old gentleman in a tremulous bleat, "Mr. Carrados, there is another now--Sir Benjamin Gump. He insists on seeing me. You will not--you will not desert us?" "I should have to stay a week," replied Carrados briskly, "and I'm just off now. There will be a procession. Mr. Carlyle will support you, I am sure." He nodded "Good-morning" straight into the eyes of each and found his way out with the astonishing certainty of movement that made so many forget his infirmity. Possibly he was not desirous of encountering Draycott's embarrassed gratitude again, for in less than a minute they heard the swirl of his departing car. "Never mind, my dear sir," Mr. Carlyle assured his client, with impenetrable complacency. "Never mind. _I_ will remain instead. Perhaps I had better make myself known to Sir Benjamin at once." The director turned on him the pleading, trustful look of a cornered dormouse. "He is in the basement," he whispered. "I shall be in the boardroom--if necessary." Mr. Carlyle had no difficulty in discovering the centre of interest in the basement. Sir Benjamin was expansive and reserved, bewildered and decisive, long-winded and short-tempered, each in turn and more or less all at once. He had already demanded the attention of the manager, Professor Bulge, Draycott and two underlings to his case and they were now involved in a babel of inutile reiteration. The inquiry agent was at once drawn into a circle of interrogation that he did his best to satisfy impressively while himself learning the new facts. The latest development was sufficiently astonishing. Less than an hour before Sir Benjamin had received a parcel by district messenger. It contained a jewel-case which ought at that moment to have been securely reposing in one of the deposit safes. Hastily snatching it open, the recipient's incredible forebodings were realized. It was empty--empty of jewels, that is to say, for, as if to add a sting to the blow, a neatly inscribed card had been placed inside, and on it the agitated baronet read the appropriate but at the moment rather gratuitous maxim: "Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth--" The card was passed round and all eyes demanded the expert's pronouncement. "'--where moth and rust doth corrupt and where thieves break through and steal.' H'm," read Mr. Carlyle with weight. "This is a most important clue, Sir Benjamin--" "Hey, what? What's that?" exclaimed a voice from the other side of the hall. "Why, damme if I don't believe you've got another! Look at that, gentlemen; look at that. What's on, I say? Here now, come; give me my safe. I want to know where I am." It was the bookmaker who strode tempestuously in among them, flourishing before their faces a replica of the card that was in Mr. Carlyle's hand. "Well, upon my soul this is most extraordinary," exclaimed that gentleman, comparing the two. "You have just received this, Mr.--Mr. Berge, isn't it?" "That's right, Berge--'Iceberg' on the course. Thank the Lord Harry, I can take my losses coolly enough, but this--this is a facer. Put into my hand half-an-hour ago inside an envelope that ought to be here and as safe as in the Bank of England. What's the game, I say? Here, Johnny, hurry and let me into my safe." Discipline and method had for the moment gone by the board. There was no suggestion of the boasted safeguards of the establishment. The manager added his voice to that of the client, and when the attendant did not at once appear he called again. "John, come and give Mr. Berge access to his safe at once." "All right, sir," pleaded the harassed key-attendant, hurrying up with the burden of his own distraction. "There's a silly fathead got in what thinks this is a left-luggage office, so far as I can make out--a foreigner." "Never mind that now," replied the manager severely, "Mr. Berge's safe: No. 01724." The attendant and Mr. Berge went off together down one of the brilliant colonnaded vistas. One or two of the others who had caught the words glanced across and became aware of a strange figure that was drifting indecisively towards them. He was obviously an elderly German tourist of pronounced type--long-haired, spectacled, outrageously garbed and involved in the mental abstraction of his philosophical race. One hand was occupied with the manipulation of a pipe, as markedly Teutonic as its owner; the other grasped a carpet-bag that would have ensured an opening laugh to any low comedian. Quite impervious to the preoccupation of the group, the German made his way up to them and picked out the manager. "This was a safety deposit, _nicht wahr_?" "Quite so," acquiesced the manager loftily, "but just now--" "Your fellow was dense of comprehension." The eyes behind the clumsy glasses wrinkled to a ponderous humour. "He forgot his own business. Now this goot bag--" Brought into fuller prominence, the carpet-bag revealed further details of its overburdened proportions. At one end a flannel shirt cuff protruded in limp dejection; at the other an ancient collar, with the grotesque attachment known as a "dickey," asserted its presence. No wonder the manager frowned his annoyance. "The Safe" was in low enough repute among its patrons at that moment without any burlesque interlude to its tragic hour. "Yes, yes," he whispered, attempting to lead the would-be depositor away, "but you are under a mistake. This is not--" "It was a safety deposit? Goot. Mine bag--I would deposit him in safety till the time of mine train. _Ja_?" "_Nein, nein_!" almost hissed the agonized official. "Go away, sir, go away! It isn't a cloakroom. John, let this gentleman out." The attendant and Mr. Berge were returning from their quest. The inner box had been opened and there was no need to ask the result. The bookmaker was shaking his head like a baffled bull. "Gone, no effects," he shouted across the hall. "Lifted from 'The Safe,' by crumb!" To those who knew nothing of the method and operation of the fraud it seemed as if the financial security of the Capital was tottering. An amazed silence fell, and in it they heard the great grille door of the basement clang on the inopportune foreigner's departure. But, as if it was impossible to stand still on that morning of dire happenings, he was immediately succeeded by a dapper, keen-faced man in severe clerical attire who had been let in as the intruder passed out. "Canon Petersham!" exclaimed the professor, going forward to greet him. "My dear Professor Bulge!" reciprocated the canon. "You here! A most disquieting thing has happened to me. I must have my safe at once." He divided his attention between the manager and the professor as he monopolized them both. "A most disquieting and--and outrageous circumstance. My safe, please--yes, yes, Rev. Henry Noakes Petersham. I have just received by hand a box, a small box of no value but one that I _thought_, yes, I am convinced that it was the one, a box that was used to contain certain valuables of family interest which should at this moment be in my safe here. No. 7436? Very likely, very likely. Yes, here is my key. But not content with the disconcerting effect of that, professor, the box contained--and I protest that it's a most unseemly thing to quote any text from the Bible in this way to a clergyman of my position--well, here it is. 'Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth--' Why, I have a dozen sermons of my own in my desk now on that very verse. I'm particularly partial to the very needful lesson that it teaches. And to apply it to _me_! It's monstrous!" "No. 7436, John," ordered the manager, with weary resignation. The attendant again led the way towards another armour-plated aisle. Smartly turning a corner, he stumbled over something, bit a profane exclamation in two, and looked back. "It's that bloomin' foreigner's old bag again," he explained across the place in aggrieved apology. "He left it here after all." "Take it upstairs and throw it out when you've finished," said the manager shortly. "Here, wait a minute," pondered John, in absent-minded familiarity. "Wait a minute. This is a funny go. There's a label on that wasn't here before. '_Why not look inside_?'" "'Why not look inside?'" repeated someone. "That's what it says." There was another puzzled silence. All were arrested by some intangible suggestion of a deeper mystery than they had yet touched. One by one they began to cross the hall with the conscious air of men who were not curious but thought that they might as well see. "Why, curse my crumpet," suddenly exploded Mr. Berge, "if that ain't the same writing as these texts!" "By gad, but I believe you are right," assented Mr. Carlyle. "Well, why not look inside?" The attendant, from his stooping posture, took the verdict of the ring of faces and in a trice tugged open the two buckles. The central fastening was not locked, and yielded to a touch. The flannel shirt, the weird collar and a few other garments in the nature of a "top-dressing" were flung out and John's hand plunged deeper.... Harry the Actor had lived up to his dramatic instinct. Nothing was wrapped up; nay, the rich booty had been deliberately opened out and displayed, as it were, so that the overturning of the bag, when John the keybearer in an access of riotous extravagance lifted it up and strewed its contents broadcast on the floor, was like the looting of a smuggler's den, or the realization of a speculator's dream, or the bursting of an Aladdin's cave, or something incredibly lavish and bizarre. Bank-notes fluttered down and lay about in all directions, relays of sovereigns rolled away like so much dross, bonds and scrip for thousands and tens of thousands clogged the downpouring stream of jewellery and unset gems. A yellow stone the size of a four-pound weight and twice as heavy dropped plump upon the canon's toes and sent him hopping and grimacing to the wall. A ruby-hilted kris cut across the manager's wrist as he strove to arrest the splendid rout. Still the miraculous cornucopia deluged the ground, with its pattering, ringing, bumping, crinkling, rolling, fluttering produce until, like the final tableau of some spectacular ballet, it ended with a golden rain that masked the details of the heap beneath a glittering veil of yellow sand. "My dust!" gasped Draycott. "My fivers, by golly!" ejaculated the bookmaker, initiating a plunge among the spoil. "My Japanese bonds, coupons and all, and--yes, even the manuscript of my work on 'Polyphyletic Bridal Customs among the mid-Pleistocene Cave Men.' Hah!" Something approaching a cachinnation of delight closed the professor's contribution to the pandemonium, and eyewitnesses afterwards declared that for a moment the dignified scientist stood on one foot in the opening movement of a can-can. "My wife's diamonds, thank heaven!" cried Sir Benjamin, with the air of a schoolboy who was very well out of a swishing. "But what does it mean?" demanded the bewildered canon. "Here are my family heirlooms--a few decent pearls, my grandfather's collection of camei and other trifles--but who--?" "Perhaps this offers some explanation," suggested Mr. Carlyle, unpinning an envelope that had been secured to the lining of the bag. "It is addressed 'To Seven Rich Sinners.' Shall I read it for you?" For some reason the response was not unanimous, but it was sufficient. Mr. Carlyle cut open the envelope. "_My dear Friends_,--Aren't you glad? Aren't you happy at this moment? Ah yes; but not with the true joy of regeneration that alone can bring lightness to the afflicted soul. Pause while there is yet time. Cast off the burden of your sinful lusts, for what shall it profit a man if he shall gain the whole world and lose his own soul? (Mark, chap. viii, _v._ 36.) "Oh, my friends, you have had an all-fired narrow squeak. Up till the Friday in last week I held your wealth in the hollow of my ungodly hand and rejoiced in my nefarious cunning, but on that day as I with my guilty female accomplice stood listening with worldly amusement to the testimony of a converted brother at a meeting of the Salvation Army on Clapham Common, the gospel light suddenly shone into our rebellious souls and then and there we found salvation. Hallelujah! "What we have done to complete the unrighteous scheme upon which we had laboured for months has only been for your own good, dear friends that you are, though as yet divided from us by your carnal lusts. Let this be a lesson to you. Sell all you have and give it to the poor--through the organization of the Salvation Army by preference--and thereby lay up for yourselves treasures where neither moth nor rust doth corrupt and where thieves do not break through and steal. (Matthew, chap. vi, _v._ 20.) "Yours in good works, _Private Henry, the Salvationist_. "_P.S._ (in haste).--I may as well inform you that no crib is really uncrackable, though the Cyrus J. Coy Co.'s Safe Deposit on West 24th Street, N.Y., comes nearest the kernel. And even that I could work to the bare rock if I took hold of the job with both hands--that is to say I could have done in my sinful days. As for you, I should recommend you to change your T.A. to 'Peanut.' "_U.K.G."_ "There sounds a streak of the old Adam in that postscript, Mr. Carlyle," whispered Inspector Beedel, who had just arrived in time to hear the letter read. 
27193	----	generously made available by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries) [Illustration: Private James H. Rawlinson] Through St. Dunstan's to Light BY PRIVATE JAMES H. RAWLINSON 58TH BATTALION, C.E.F. TORONTO THOMAS ALLEN 1919 COPYRIGHT, CANADA, 1919 BY THOMAS ALLEN CONTENTS CHAPTER I PAGE My Ticket for Blighty 1 CHAPTER II In Blighty 14 CHAPTER III At St. Dunstan's 23 CHAPTER IV Braille 32 CHAPTER V The Spirit of St. Dunstan's 37 CHAPTER VI Air Raids 45 CHAPTER VII Royal Visitors 55 CHAPTER VIII In Playtime 61 CHAPTER IX Memories of the Fighting Front 68 CHAPTER X The Point of View of the Sightless 74 ILLUSTRATIONS Private James H. Rawlinson _Frontispiece_ The Boot-Repairing Workshop _Facing Page_ 12 Sir Arthur Pearson " " 16 St. Dunstan's: The House " " 24 The Carpenter Shop " " 30 The Braille Room " " 34 Mat Weaving " " 56 Sightless Canadian Four " " 66 Basket Weaving " " 84 THROUGH ST. DUNSTAN'S TO LIGHT CHAPTER I MY TICKET FOR BLIGHTY In the World War, it was not only the men who went "over the top" to assault enemy positions who ran great risks. Scouts, snipers, patrols, working parties, all took their lives in their hands every time they ventured into No Man's Land, and even those who were engaged in essential work behind the lines were far from being safe from death or wounds. On the morning of June 7th, 1917, before dawn had broken, I was out with a working party. Suddenly, overhead, sounded the ominous drumming and droning of an aeroplane. It proved to be a Hun plane; the aviator had spotted us, and was speedily in touch with the battery for which he was working. Fortunately for us, he had mistaken our exact position, and evidently thought we were on a road which ran towards the front line about thirty yards to our left. The enemy guns, in answer to his signals, opened up with a terrific fire, and the scenery round about was soon in a fine mess. Shells of varying calibre came thundering in our direction, throwing up, as they burst, miniature volcanoes and filling the air with dust and mud and smoke. This shell-fire continued for about three-quarters of an hour, but due to the defect in the aviator's signals and our own skill in taking cover we suffered no casualties. We were congratulating ourselves that we were to pass through this ordeal uninjured, when suddenly a 5.9-inch shell fell short. It exploded almost in our midst, and I was unlucky enough to get in the way of one of the shrapnel bullets. I felt a slight sting in my right temple as though pricked by a red-hot needle--and then the world became black. Dawn was now breaking, but night had sealed my eyes, and I could only grope my way among my comrades. I was hit about 2.30 a.m., and it speaks volumes for the Medical Service that at 2 p.m. I was tucked safely in bed in a thoroughly-equipped hospital many miles from the scene of my mishap. Willing hands tenderly dressed my wounds and led me to the foot of the ridge on which we were located. I was then placed on a stretcher, and carried up the slope to one of the narrow-gauge railways that had been run to the crest of Vimy Ridge. I was now taken to the end of what is called the Y Road, and thence borne to one of the ambulances which are always in waiting there, grim reminders of the work in hand. My first impression of my ambulance driver was that I had fallen into the hands of a Good Samaritan. He was most solicitous about the welfare of the "head-case," and kept showering me with questions, such as: "Are you comfortable, Mac?" (everyone in the Canadian Corps was "Mac" to the stranger). "Tell me if I am driving too fast for you; you know, the roads are a little lumpy round here." I didn't know it, but I was quickly to become aware of the fact. His words and his driving did not harmonize; if he missed a single shell-hole in the wide stretch of France through which he drove, it was not his fault. I shall never forget the agony of that drive; but at length, bruised and shaken, I arrived at the Casualty Clearing Station at--but, no, I will not mention its name; some of my readers may know the men who were there at the time of my arrival, and there is pain enough in the world without unnecessarily adding to the total. At the Clearing Station I learned two things: First, that all the best souvenirs of the war are in the possession of men who seldom or never saw the front line; and, secondly, the real meaning, so far as the wounded "Tommy" is concerned, of the letters R.A.M.C. The official records say they stand for the Royal Army Medical Corps; but ask the men who have passed through the hands of the Corps. They'll tell you with picturesque vehemence, and there will be nothing Royal or Medical in their answer. For my own poor part, here's hoping that the thirty-eight francs that disappeared from my pockets while in their hands did some good somewhere. But I sadly wanted that money while in the hospital at Boulogne to satisfy a craving I had for oranges. Perhaps the beer or _eau de vie_ that it no doubt purchased did more good than the oranges would have done me. Again, let us hope so! From the Casualty Clearing Station I was taken to the hospital at St. Omer, which was later to be laid flat by Hun air raids. And here, for the first time, I realized the full weight of the calamity that had overtaken me, and what being "windy" really meant. I was first visited by the M.O., who removed my bandage and had my head skilfully dressed; after him came a priest of the Church to which I belonged, who administered to me the rites of the Church; then followed the assistant matron, who endeavoured to cheer me up by asking if I wished to have any letters written home. Before my inward eyes there began to flash visions of a newspaper notice: "Died of wounds." But although a bit alarmed, more by the attentions shown me than by my physical condition, the thought of pegging-out never seriously entered my mind. I spent four days at the hospital at St. Omer, and was then transferred to Boulogne, together with a New Zealand sergeant who was in the same plight as myself, and whom I later had the pleasure of meeting under more favourable and happier conditions at dear old St. Dunstan's. At Boulogne, I was given a thorough examination, and the doctors concluded that an absolutely useless member of the body was an unnecessary burden to the bearer, and so they removed what remained of my left eye. I was still vainly hoping that my right eye, which was remote from my wound, might recover its sight; but as the days crept by while the blackness of night hung about me I grew alarmed, and one day I asked the O.C. hospital why he was constantly lifting up my right eyelid. Truth to tell, I was scared stiff with the thought that they were contemplating removing my remaining eye, but I gave no outward sign of my fear. No matter how "windy" one is, it would never do to let the other fellow know it, at least not while you are wearing the uniform of the Canadians. I, therefore, quickly followed my first question with the inquiry if he thought he might yet get some daylight into my right eye. "When?" he questioned. And, still clinging to the hope that I was not to be forever in the dark, I replied, "In five, ten, fifteen, twenty-five years; any time, so long as I get some light." In answer, he merely patted me on the shoulder, saying: "Never mind, things are not always quite so bad as they look." Then he moved away from my cot, and a moment later I heard him talking in undertones to another officer. This officer, whom he now brought to my bedside, proved to be Captain Towse, the bravest man it has ever been my privilege to meet, and while I was up the line I met many brave men who, where duty called, counted life not at a pin's fee. Captain Towse is a double V.C. It is hard enough to get the Cross itself, and there are few men who dare even to dream of a bar to it. I was now in personal touch with a man who, in distant Africa, during the Great Boer War, with both eyes shot away, had gallantly stood firm, urging his men to the charge. He came to my bedside with a cheery: "Good morning, Canada! How is the boy this morning?" My answer was the usual one of the boys in France: "Jakealoo!" Then he pointedly asked me a question that set me wondering at its purport. "You are a soldier, are you not, Canada?" I replied with a somewhat mournful: "Well, I was one time, but I can't say much as to the truth of that now." Then he hit me harder than any Hun shell could hit a man. He snapped out in a voice penetrating, yet with a cheery ring to it: "Well, you are blind, and for life. How do you like it?" For about five seconds (it was no longer) the night that sealed my eyes seemed to clutch my soul. I was for the moment "down and out"; but I braced my spirits in the presence of this dominating man. I would show him how a Canadian soldier could bear misfortune. So I gathered myself together as best I could under the circumstances; swore just a little to ease my nervous strain, and replied: "That's a hell of a thing to tell a guy." Then came words that rolled a mighty load from heart and brain. Captain Towse praised my soldierly bearing under misfortune, and praise from this blind double V.C. meant much. He had been sorely smitten at a time when there was no St. Dunstan's, no Sir Arthur Pearson, to make his blindness into just a handicap, instead of what it nearly always was before the days of St. Dunstan's, an unparalleled affliction. But Captain Towse beat blindness, and did it, for the most part, alone. Now the cruel fact had to be faced; the only world I would see henceforth would be that conjured up by the imagination from memories of the past. Then the difficulties of the future crowded upon me. Even if I were not to see as other people do I should still have to eat; and dinners do not grow by the roadside, and if they did I could not see to pick them up. "Well, Jim," I said to myself, "you are in a fine fix; what are you going to do to get those three square meals a day that you were accustomed to in civil life?" Then I began to wonder what particular street and what street corner in old Toronto would be best suited for selling matches, bootlaces, pencils, and postcards. While in this vein, I conjured up visions of cold, grey days, days when customers did not appear, and imagined myself led home at night without having enough to buy even a meal. My humour suggested strolling along the roadside singing doleful songs. I even chose a song, "The Blind Boy," by the late W. G. Chirgwin, on which I might try my voice. All this passed through my mind while Captain Towse was still standing by my cot. I was suddenly startled from my gruesome speculations by the captain asking me if I had made up my mind to go to St. Dunstan's. I had to confess that I did not know the place, where it was, or what it was for. Then he told me that he wished to take down some particulars regarding me. He wanted to know my full name, regimental number, when I was hit, where I received my wound, who was my next of kin, and many other particulars, all of which I, at that time, thought a most unnecessary and foolish proceeding. While the Captain was questioning me, I heard a rapid, clicking sound following each of my answers. The noise fascinated me, and after a brief time I made bold to ask him what it was. The answer fairly staggered me. "It's a Braille machine," he replied. "I am writing down your answers." I knew he was blind--blinder than any bat; and, in my ignorance, I asked him, in an irritated voice, if he thought that it was fair to try "to kid" a man who had just been told that he would never again have the use of his eyes. He uttered no word, but I had a feeling that a smile was playing on his lips; and the next moment the machine he had been operating was placed in my hands. He then began patiently to explain its use, and what a moment before had seemed an utter impossibility I realized to be a fact. Although the blind could not see, they at least had it in their power to put down their thoughts without the aid of a second party; and, not only that, the world of knowledge was no longer a sealed book--they could read as well as write. The eye had been accustomed to carry the printed word to the brain; now the finger tips could take the place of eyes. I now recalled that I had seen a blind man sitting at a street corner, running his fingers over the pages of a big book; but I had paid no heed to it, thinking it merely a fake performance to gain sympathy from the public. I told this to Captain Towse, and he replied kindly that I should soon learn much greater things about the blind. At St. Dunstan's, he said, there were about three hundred men, all more or less sightless, making baskets, mats, hammocks, nets, bags, and dozens of other useful articles, mending boots, doing carpentry, learning the poultry business, fitting themselves for massage work, and, what seemed to me most incredible, taking up stenography as an occupation. [Illustration: The Boot-Repairing Workshop] Men--men who could not see as did other men, were doing these things; straightway, the old street corner, the selling of matches and shoelaces, the street strolling singing in a cracked voice while twanging some tuneless instrument, vanished. Other men had risen above this crowning infirmity; why could not I. Boulogne and this meeting with Captain Towse had saved me. Gloom vanished, for the moment at any rate, and my whole being was animated by a great resolve--the resolve to win in the battle of life, even though I had to fight against fearful odds. CHAPTER II IN BLIGHTY It was with a sense of relief that, shortly after this, I received word that I was to be sent to England. To me, it was the promised land, in which I was to be fitted to take my place as a useful, independent member of society. The trip to Dover was pleasant and exhilarating; the run to London a bit tedious. But an incident that occurred on my arrival at Charing Cross Station touched my heart as has nothing else in my life, and my misfortune seemed, for the moment, almost a blessing; it taught me that hearts beat right and true, and that about me were men and women eager to cheer me on as I played the game of life. It was just one of London's flower-girls, one of the women who religiously meet the hospital trains and shower on the wounded soldiers the flowers they have not sold--flowers, no doubt, held back from sale in most cases for this charitable purpose. When the attendants were moving me from the train and placing me on a stretcher, I was gently touched, and a large bunch of roses placed in my hand. The act was accompanied by the words: "'Ere ye are, Tommy. These 'ere roses will 'elp to liven things up a bit when yer gets in the 'ospital. Good luck to you, matey; may yer soon get better." The voice was harsh and unmusical. Grammar and accent showed that it had been trained in the slums; but the kindly act, the sympathetic words, touched my soul. The act was much to me, but the flowers were nothing. In answer to the girl's good wishes, I replied that I did not see as well as I used to, and that my power of enjoying the perfume of flowers had also been taken from me; perhaps there were some other wounded boys who could appreciate the beauty and scent of the flowers better than I could, and she had better put them on one of their stretchers. But she left them with me, and, in a voice in which I could detect a tear, said:-- "Well, matey, if yer can't see, yer can feel. Let's give yer a kiss." I nodded assent, and then I received the first kiss from a woman's lips that I had had since I left home--and then she passed away, but the memory of that kiss remains, and will remain while life lasts. I was now taken to St. George's Hospital, and from there to No. 2 London General Hospital (old St. Mark's College), Chelsea. In this institution I met for the first time one of the geniuses of the present age, a man who spent his life working not with clay or marble, or wood or metal, but with human beings, taking the derelicts of life and moulding them into useful vessels--Sir Arthur Pearson, a true miracle worker, a man who has given the equivalent of eyes to hundreds of blind people, who has enabled many men who felt themselves down and out to face life's battle bravely, teaching them to look upon their affliction as nothing more than a petty handicap. A few years ago, as everyone knows, Sir Arthur was one of the leading journalists and publishers in the British Empire, the true founder of Imperial journalism. At the summit of his career, while still a comparatively young man, he was smitten with blindness. He would not let a thing like that beat him; he conquered blindness, and set himself to help others to conquer it. He soon became the leading spirit in the education of the blind in Great Britain, and, despite his handicap, was elected President of the National Institute for the Blind, and was the guiding star in many organizations established to aid the sightless. When war broke out his success as an organizer, his power as a teacher, caused the authorities to choose him to look after the blinded of the Army and Navy. [Illustration: Sir Arthur Pearson] My meeting with Sir Arthur occurred in the following manner. The ward door was open--I knew that by the gentle breeze that swept across my cot. Suddenly, from the direction of the door, a cheery voice exclaimed: "Are any new men here? Where's Rawlinson?" I answered: "Right here, sir! But who are you?" "Well, Rawlinson, and how are you getting along? When do they figure on letting you get away from here? You know, we are waiting for you at St. Dunstan's." I knew then that the man standing by my cot was the famous Sir Arthur. I shook hands with him, and thanked him for his kindly interest in asking about me. I offered him the chair that always stands beside the hospital bed. He must have heard me moving some objects I had placed on it, in order to have them within reach of my hands. "Never mind the chair," he said. "Just sit up a bit; there is room enough on the bed for both of us. Have you got a cigarette to give a fellow?" I apologized, saying that I had only ---- ----, and that I didn't think he would care to smoke them. "Do you smoke them?" he questioned. "If they're good enough for you to smoke, they're good enough for me." That set me right at my ease. I was in the presence of a knight; but he was first and last a _man_. Straight to the point he went. He never puts a man through that bugbear of the soldier, a host of seemingly inconsequential questions; he has the particulars of each man who is likely to come under his direction long before he visits him. "Have you," he said, "made up your mind to join our happy band at St. Dunstan's. There's lots of room up there for you, and we want you." Just here I would remark that No. 2 General was a sort of preparatory school for St. Dunstan's. The adjutant from one of the St. Dunstan's establishments, either the House, College, or Bungalow, came to read the newspapers and talk with the men who were to study under him. So we had by this means picked up much information about Sir Arthur, and knew the man even before meeting him; but the being conjured up by our imagination fell far short of the real man. He did not come to your bedside commiserating with you over your misfortune. He was totally unlike the average visitor, whose one aim seemed to be to impress on you some appropriate--often most inappropriate, considering your condition--text of scripture. Well, he was with me, and we talked and smoked, the knight and the private soldier, both blind, but both completely ignoring the fact. During our talk darkness seemed to vanish, and I saw a great light--the battle could be won, and I would win it. After that conference, I knew full well that I should not be a burden upon anybody, sightless though I was. Up to this time my idea of a blind man was just what is or was that of the average sighted person--a man groping his way about the streets or standing at some conspicuous corner with a card hanging on his breast telling the world that he could not see; a cup to hold the coppers that the sympathetic public would drop into it; and last, but not least, a faithful little dog, his friend and guide. During the first days of my blindness I often wondered where I was going to get a suitable pup. While at No. 2 London General, preparation for my future work went on. As soon as I was able to get out of bed, I was taken once each week to St. Dunstan's to talk with other men in residence there--a species of initiation. While in hospital, too, as soon as we were able to work a little, we were given the rudiments of Braille. This was not compulsory; and if we wished to yield to fate and sit with hands idly folded we were at liberty to do so. But the majority of the men were eager for occupation of any kind. Lying in bed or sitting on a hospital chair, unable to see the objects about you, there is a danger of deep depression being occasioned by melancholy brooding. To prevent this, the V.A.D.'s who worked in the St. Dunstan's Ward saw to it that the men were not left too much to themselves, and kindly attention kept me from becoming morbid while waiting for my exchange to St. Dunstan's. As I was a Canadian, I had to go down to the Canadian Hospital to receive my final Board--just a matter of that child of the devil, red-tape. August 13th saw me on my way to Regent's Park, where St. Dunstan's is situated. My heart leaped within me; I was going to have first-hand knowledge of the marvellous things about which I had heard. I was going to learn things that would put me out of the stick, tin-cup, card-around-my-neck, and little-dog class. Thirteen may be an unlucky number, but that 13th of August was, notwithstanding my blindness, the beginning of the happiest year of my life since I left my mother's home. On my way to St. Dunstan's, I journeyed from the Marble Arch to Orchard Street, then by bus up Orchard Street, Upper Baker and Baker Streets, right past Marylebone, on the right of which stands Madame Tussaud's famous Wax-Works, and on to Baker Street tube. Just past the tube is Clarence Gate, one of the entrances to Regent's Park. Entering the grounds, we followed the park rails until we came to two white stone pillars. I have painful recollections of these pillars. For the first two weeks after my arrival at St. Dunstan's I made their acquaintance frequently, and in no pleasant manner. I was anxious to find my way about without assistance, and those pillars always seemed to stand in my way. Head, shoulders, and shins all bumped into them. They would meet me even if I walked in the broad roadway. And they were hard, very hard. They were at first a pair of veritable ogres, but in the end I conquered them, and could walk by them with a jaunty air, whistling a tune of defiance. CHAPTER III AT ST. DUNSTAN'S When I arrived at St. Dunstan's, the place was practically deserted. The summer holidays were on, and all the men were away, either at their homes in the British Isles or at one of the annexes of St. Dunstan's. Sir Arthur sees to it that no man goes without his vacation. Torquay and Brighton were within easy reach, and at these seaside resorts there were rest homes for the St. Dunstan's men. Since that time, so greatly has the attendance increased, it has been found necessary to open other vacation resorts. It is to these places that the sightless Colonials go. When the boys got back, work began in earnest. I have been speaking of St. Dunstan's; it is now fitting that I give a description of this Mecca of the sightless, or, as we say, of those who do not see quite as well as other people. A hostel for the training of those having defective sight suggests a barrack-like structure with whitewashed walls, board forms for the accommodation of the students, and the rudest of furniture. What need is there of the beautiful for those who are without eyes, or who have eyes that see not? But the blind have a keen appreciation of the beautiful, and ample provision has been made by the founders of St. Dunstan's for satisfying the aesthetic craving of the students. [Illustration: St. Dunstan's: The House] St. Dunstan's stands on one of the largest estates in the city of London. It is surpassed in size only by the Royal Palace of Buckingham. The grounds are over sixteen acres in extent, and it has one of the most beautiful lawns in the United Kingdom. The House belongs to Mr. Otto Kahn, an American financier, who played an important part in bringing the United States to the side of the Allies. When Sir Arthur Pearson started out on his big drive in the interests of the soldiers and sailors who might be deprived of their sight in the Great World War, Mr. Kahn generously laid the whole of this magnificent estate at his disposal. The House itself is one of the most famous in the United Kingdom. In the days when it was the property of Lord Londesborough, it was often the scene of royal gatherings. The Kaiser visited it so frequently that the people in the vicinity began to look upon his coming as a matter of course. Entering the gate to the left, the first object to meet the eye is the lodge-keeper's house, a picturesque, rose-embowered structure. Then comes the lawn, a wide stretch of velvety turf, cool and restful. The approach to the House itself is through an avenue of mulberry trees, well intermingled with lime. In the summer season the air is filled with the scent of flowers, welling forth from roses, yellow jasmine, and pink almond blossoms. Entering the building by the main entrance, to the left of the hallway the visitor sees the office of Sir Arthur and those of his staff, who, under the supervision of the chief, control the hostel. At either side of the hallway are two magnificent chairs, one of which was the favourite seat of Edward the Peacemaker, and the other that of Kaiser Wilhelm II., the German War Lord. Passing through the hallway, the lounge room is reached, and a little farther the outer lounge, formerly Lord Londesborough's ballroom, where are staged the charming concerts for which the House is famous. But St. Dunstan's is not a mere resthouse. It is essentially a humming hive of industry, an educational institution where there is something for everyone to learn. Whether a man can see or not, he can here find occupation for his hands and mind. After all, we do not _see_ with our _eyes_; they merely carry sights to the seeing brain, and the hands, and even feet, can perform the same duties, only in a different way. Teachers were many and willing. And here I should like to record the fact that no one can teach the blind quite as well as the other fellow who is also sightless. I know whereof I speak, for I have been piloted around localities by people who could see and also by people whose "eyesight was not as good as it once was." This last expression is borrowed from Sir Arthur, who always speaks of his sightless boys as: "The boys whose eyesight is not quite as good as it once was." About a week after the boys had returned from their vacation, I had a chance to visit the workshops. What a hive of industry these same workshops are! Go there, you men and women blessed with sight, and see for yourselves what your sightless brother is doing in the way of making himself over again, bringing into play his latent powers, and turning what seemed to be a worthless creature, a burden to himself and humanity, into the only asset--a producer--that is worth while to any country. The obstacles he faces at the beginning seem unsurmountable; but at St. Dunstan's the spirit of the place grips him and the word "cannot" disappears from his dictionary. But at first he has much to unlearn. All his old methods of work have to be forgotten. He is, in a sense, a child again, born the day his sight was taken from him. But though his sight is lost, if he is the right sort, the greatest asset a man possesses can never be taken from him--his spirit, his determination never to be a burden on others; his feeling, his knowledge that what others have done he can do. His confidence in his ability to make good, his spirit of independence--he still has these, and they enable him to win greater victories than any he might have achieved in battle, victories over that terror of the sighted--blindness. Those of us who claim St. Dunstan's as our _Alma Mater_ are often told that we can talk of nothing but the place and the treatment we received there. Our answer is: Out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaketh. She took us up when we were in the depths and remade us into _men_; she taught us to be real producers; she made it possible for us to take our place in the ranks of the earners--in fact, all that we know and all that we are we owe to her. There is only one point on which Sir Arthur and his boys disagree. Sir Arthur claims that it was the boys who made St. Dunstan's; the boys maintain that St. Dunstan's made the men. While I was in residence there, there were about five hundred and fifty men undergoing instruction, and yet St. Dunstan's carried on smoothly and serenely without the slightest vestige of discipline in the ordinary sense of the word. Only two per cent. of those who passed through the institution failed to make good. What other educational establishment can boast such a record? And yet nothing was compulsory except sobriety. I was at St. Dunstan's for sixteen months, and as my case was typical I cannot do better, in order to give a detailed account of the work there, than relate my own experiences. When I was ready to begin work, I went before the Adjutant and arranged what courses I would take up. Times for classes were fixed, teachers named, and everything done to enable me to begin my training for the battle of life. I was, as it were, a child again, about to enter school for the second time, but under vastly different conditions from my first entrance, about a quarter of a century before. Braille and typewriting were taken up as a matter of course. Braille is taught to enable the sightless to read for themselves, and typewriting in order that it will not be so hard on their friends, as it is much easier for the blind to learn to typewrite than it is for the sighted to learn to read Braille. It took me four months to master Braille, but I passed my typewriting test in less than three weeks. I was pleased with my achievement in respect to the latter, as I had determined to take up stenography and typewriting as a profession. There was an added incentive for the students to take up typewriting, for Sir Arthur, the most generous of men, presents each of his boys with a typewriter when he is leaving St. Dunstan's. The occupations were varied, and in my early days as a student, my greatest pleasure was to visit the various rooms where workers were engaged at different callings. Here some were repairing shoes, and humming ditties happily as they worked; now the rustling and crackling told me that I was in the presence of men making baskets and mats; again, the sound of hammers driving home nails and of planes made me aware that I was among carpenters. In addition to these trades, men were at work studying poultry-keeping, and taking courses in massage work. At first I viewed all this from the attitude of the sighted, and it seemed to me an unparalleled miracle; but after a time I took it all as a matter of course. [Illustration: The Carpenter Shop] The stenographic and massage courses take the longest time; but at St. Dunstan's there is no time limit set for any course. If proficiency is not achieved in one month or six months, the student can keep doggedly at it for a longer period. St. Dunstan's is a home until proficiency in the chosen calling is achieved. "Grow proficient" was Sir Arthur's demand of his boys; and with few exceptions they stuck at it till he was satisfied. The time of actual work for each man was about three and a half hours per day. From this it will be seen that it was not all work at St. Dunstan's. While the main purpose of the institution is to make producers of men with a serious handicap, another great aim is to brighten their lives and create in them that buoyant spirit--the _moral_ of life--that is half the battle. CHAPTER IV BRAILLE I have often been asked, "What is Braille? Is it raised letters?" Braille was originated by a Frenchman named Louis Braille, in 1829, and, with a few trifling changes, stands to-day as it left the hands of its inventor. The base of the system consists of six raised dots enclosed in what is called a cell, thus-- +---+ |. .| |. .|. |. .| +---+ The dots are numbered as follows: left-hand dots, 1, 3, 5; right-hand, 2, 4, 6. For reading purposes the dots are arranged in cells corresponding to the base cell, each cell being a letter or contraction. In Grade II Braille, there are in all eighty-two word and letter signs. The letters of the alphabet +---+ |. | are as follows: Dot 1-- | | --represents the | | +---+ +---+ |. | letter A; dots 1 and 3-- |. | --the letter B; | | +---+ +---+ |. .| dots 1, 2-- | | --the letter C; dots 1, 2, 4-- | | +---+ +---+ |. .| | .| --the letter D, and so on. The arrangement | | +---+ of the dots in the cell gives not only all the letters of the alphabet, but signs that stand for words and phrases as well. I began the study of Braille with Miss Gilles, a New Zealand lady, as my instructor, while I was at St. Mark's Hospital. I was first given a wooden box full of holes. Into these holes my teacher showed me how to put nails with large heads, the nails being placed in cells to correspond with the Braille alphabet. After I had succeeded in grasping the principle of Braille by means of the nails--which, by the way, I frequently jabbed into my fingers instead of into the holes--I was given a card with the alphabet on it. At first the dots seemed without form and void; and when I was asked what numbers I felt, I did wish for my eyes, as I was utterly unable to convey to my brain the letter under my fingers. The hardest part of Braille for the beginner is not in getting it into the head, but in getting the fingers to take the place of eyes. But it is only necessary to persevere to get the proper, illuminating "touch" into the finger tips. The men made sightless in the war were in most cases confronted with grave difficulties. Their hands were hardened by toil, and their fingers calloused by work in the trenches. One of my comrades, when given his Braille card, struggled over it for a time, and then exclaimed: "I wish they'd leave this card out in the rain till the dots swelled to the size of door-knobs; then I might be able to read it." [Illustration: The Braille Room] Before I left St. Mark's I had mastered the first ten letters of the alphabet; but I was soon to learn that if one does not keep at it, "touch" will be lost. After leaving St. Mark's, I spent three idle weeks at Folkestone. As a result, when I arrived at St. Dunstan's I had to begin my Braille all over again. My teacher at St. Dunstan's, Miss Wineberg, proved herself as patient as was Miss Gilles; but patience is a characteristic virtue of all the women who instructed the sightless boys in the Braille Room, and among them were some of the best-known ladies in England, four having titles. These teachers sit for hours making men "stick it," in many cases against their will, until they have mastered the mystery of correctly judging the number and arrangement of dots under the finger tip. The theory of Braille can be grasped in six weeks by the average student; but it takes from four to six months to so cultivate touch as to make the fingers readily take the place of eyes. After the reading of Braille has been mastered, writing it, an even more difficult operation, is taken up. When I had satisfactorily passed my test in both reading and writing, I entered that holy of holies, the Shorthand Room. The four teachers in this room are all blind. Our teacher was Corporal Charles McIntosh, who had lost both his eyes and his right leg while with the Gallipoli Expeditionary Force. I have stated that there are eighty-two signs in Grade II Braille; but Braille shorthand contains six hundred and eighty word and letter signs that have to be committed to memory. A herculean task was before me, but by dogged effort on my part and patience on the part of my instructor, I succeeded so well that in a few weeks I was able to take shorthand notes as speedily as the average sighted stenographer. Meanwhile, I had been diligently at work at my typewriting, and under the kindly instruction of Miss Dorothy Charles Dickens, a granddaughter of the great novelist, I had soon acquired sufficient speed and accuracy to qualify for work. CHAPTER V THE SPIRIT OF ST. DUNSTAN's To give an adequate account of the work done at St. Dunstan's, and of the spirit of the place, it is necessary to touch upon the personnel of the hostel. I have already dwelt at some length on the patient self-sacrifice of the teachers of Braille: the spirit they display animates the entire staff. The work of the V.A.D.'s is beyond praise. Very few of these noble women actually live on the premises; most of them live in annexes provided for them by the St. Dunstan's management. What they do, what they endure, can best be comprehended by following them through a day's work. They rise at 6 a.m., and after acting as their own housemaids for their sleeping apartments, wend their way to the various houses to which they are assigned. Breakfast hour is at 7 a.m. After this meal, the real work of the day begins. At the Bungalow, where I was staying, the V.A.D.'s ate at three tables; and after each meal two were told off to clear the tables. At 8 o'clock the men had their breakfast, two of the women being given the task of waiting on each table; and as they had to attend to sixteen men, all healthy specimens of humanity, some of whom had been out on the lake since early morning, getting up a voracious appetite, their work was far from light. There was, I might say just here, no shortage of food at St. Dunstan's, not even while the war was on; and we had a lingering suspicion that Sir Arthur had a "pull" with the Food Minister. At any rate, he secured us all we could eat, and of excellent variety; and there were few in London who could say as much after food was rationed. Breakfast over, the Sisters, as they are called, went to the dormitories. Each dormitory held twenty-five beds; and with these and in other ways, they were kept busy until 11.45. The dinner hour was twelve o'clock. After dinner some of the men always went for a row on the lake; and of course, they needed some one to steer the boat. A Sister was called, and she gladly joined the boys. During my entire stay at the Bungalow, I never heard one grumble or complain at these calls on her time and energy. At 2 p.m., the morning Sisters went off duty, and their time was their own until six in the evening, when they again came on, and devoted themselves to the needs of the men until nine o'clock. They were allowed one afternoon a week, which afternoon began at 6 p.m.; and on this day they were on duty until this hour from six in the morning. In addition, they were granted a week-end every three months. These women did their bit during the war--and are still doing it--as truly as did the men at the front. Their work was hard, nerve-racking, and often of a disagreeable kind; and it must be remembered that many of them had never so much as dusted off their own pianos before taking up their duties at St. Dunstan's. The matron of the Bungalow was Mrs. Craven, a sympathetic woman of heroic mould, and with a wide experience in war work. She has two South African medals, and for twelve months was matron of the hospital at Bar-le-Duc that Fritzie once termed "that damned little British hospital," just eight miles behind the lines at Verdun; at a time when the Germans were exerting their utmost power to break through, and were making the destruction of hospitals and clearing stations a specialty. Mrs. Craven was every inch a soldier. The following incident admirably illustrates her character. One of the men was one day calling for a Sister just at the time that they were going off duty for the morning, and waiting to be relieved by the afternoon Sisters. The man had called three or four times at the top of his voice, "Sister! Sister! Anybody's Sister!" There was no response. The matron heard him, and rushed to his assistance. As she passed through the Lounge Room she met a Sister--a new one, by the way--who had paid no attention to the call. The matron asked her, somewhat sternly, "Did you not hear that man calling?" "Yes, Matron; but I am off duty now." "Off duty! If you were up the line and were going off duty, and a convoy of broken, bleeding men were being brought in, would you think that you would be justified in not going to their aid because you were off duty?" "Under such circumstances I should not think of such a thing." "Well, I wish you to remember that there is no time here when you are off duty. While working in St. Dunstan's all the staff are on duty for twenty-four hours a day. These men have been deprived of the most precious thing God had given them while seeing to it that we women might live here in comparative safety and comfort. I am here to see to their welfare, and I intend that everyone working with me shall do the same at all seasons and all hours. Never let me hear you speak of being off duty again when a cry of distress goes up. The work here is just as important as if you were up the line. These men, although healed of their open wounds, need our aid, for the time being at any rate, to help them bear the burden that has been laid upon them." Mrs. Craven was a veritable mother to all who came under her care, and the boys showed their appreciation of her services when she was "called up" by the War Office to take charge at one of the largest hospitals in England. The matron of the House, known to all as "Sister Pat," was compelled to retire from her position on account of a breakdown in health. When she was leaving, the boys presented her with a trifling gift as a mark of their esteem, and to keep them green in her memory. But no gift was needed for that. As she accepted the present, she said: "Boys, Sister Pat will come back to you. She cannot leave her boys for ever. I will come back to you if you will have me, if it is only to clean your boots." Her place in the heart of her boys will never be filled. Then there was Captain McMahon, adjutant at the Bungalow. The captain had lost a leg in the South African War. The operation had not been a success, and the "Skipper," as we affectionately called him, put in many painful hours. To my own knowledge, on one occasion, he endured extreme suffering for thirty-six hours at a stretch. It was clear to all that a second operation was needed. One day, while in his office, I asked him why he did not go to a hospital and have another amputation. My remark was an innocent one, but I was quickly made to regret it. "Rawlinson," he replied, "I did not think you would ask me such a question." "Why?" I continued. "Why!" he snapped back. "Don't you know that there are still hundreds of boys coming down the line wounded and broken?" "Yes," I answered. "But why should that stop you?" Then I got it. "Jim," he said, "there might be one of those boys that would require the bed that I occupied, and my being there might necessitate that lad having to go to one of the hospitals perhaps right in the north of England. No, Jim, I will wait till all of them have been set on their feet again before I make application for a bed in one of the London hospitals." And so Captain McMahon heroically continued to bear his suffering rather than keep one of the derelicts from France out of a bed. Next to Sir Arthur Pearson, he was dearest to the men in the Bungalow. They loved him, and there was not one of the two hundred and fifty men there who would not gladly have allowed him to walk over his body if it would be for his good. The "Skipper" was a Man, a man's man, a father to all of us, whom it was good to know. When the boys were worried they took their troubles to him. He made all their worries his own, and it was surprising what a big load of care he could carry. Mrs. Craven, "Sister Pat," and Captain McMahon were leaders in the life at St. Dunstan's. But the whole place was animated with the same spirit that inspired them; the spirit that manifested itself in its fulness in Sir Arthur Pearson, and in a lesser degree in every student. It made all the boys workers, and created in them the desire to help others, to make the world a little better for their being in it, even if they had to work under a handicap. CHAPTER VI AIR RAIDS When I left the shores of France I thought I was permanently out of danger from the death-dealing missiles of the enemy; not that I cared much then; I had received such a blow that I should not greatly have regretted a stroke that would have ended my earthly career. But the arm of Germany was long, the ingenuity of the War Lords great; by means of their magnificent submarines they had carried the war to the shores of England, so by their superb air force they were to bring it to the heart of London; indeed, by their Zeppelins, those crowning failures of their efficiency, they had already done that. I had been in London but a short time when, on Saturday, July 21st, 1917, I had my first experience of an air raid in a crowded city. At the time I was in St. Mark's Hospital, undergoing my preliminary training for St. Dunstan's, at the moment in the ward receiving instruction in Braille. Shortly before noon some one entered the room and exclaimed jubilantly that a vast flock of aeroplanes, estimated at from thirty to sixty, were manoeuvring at a great height in battle formation over the city, and we were congratulating ourselves that the War Office had at length aroused itself and was demonstrating its ability to cope with any attack by heavier-than-air machines that the enemy might send over. As we listened to the news and longed for our eyes that we might have a sight of this spectacle, the thunderous report of a bursting bomb undeceived us. These planes were not marked with the friendly tricoloured circles, but with the ominous cross. There were cries of terror, a hurrying of feet, a near panic as bomb succeeded bomb. Many of us had been disciplined to war conditions, had dodged bombs at the Somme and Vimy Ridge, dodged them when shrapnel was spraying about us and machine-gun and rifle bullets made the air hiss on every side; but this attack in the heart of a great city was not without its terrifying aspect. After having escaped death on the battle-field, it would be horrible to have to meet it in the tumbling ruins of a crushed building. But we faced the situation stoically. London and its suburbs had over 7,000,000 people, and, by the theory of chances, we concluded that we were not likely to be hit. This was the first Hun aeroplane success over London, the only one in which he accomplished anything of value from a military point of view, one bomb knocking a corner off the General Post Office, St. Martin's in the Field, and almost disrupting the whole of the telegraph system that was carrying messages to and from military headquarters. There was, of course, the usual slaughter of defenceless women and children, deeds that the Hun hoped would terrorize England, lower the _moral_ of her people, and keep a large army within the island for home defence. How little he knew the British race! The deplorable thing in connection with the raid was that while it was in progress there was not a single machine in the air combatting the attackers, and not an anti-aircraft gun in action. The War Office needed to be roused from its slumbers. It was; and when the next raiders came over they had a warm reception. My next experience was in the open. One day I was walking through London's streets when the approach of a raiding force was announced. Shelters were by this time provided for the citizens, and to one of these underground bomb-proof spots, a tube, I made my way. At this time, London was largely a city of women and foreigners--at least so it seemed to me. I had evidently hit upon a shelter of a most cosmopolitan character. The place was packed with a frightened mob, trembling and groaning with terror, and expressing their fears in many tongues utterly unknown to me. The air was stifling with that distinctive odour that seems to emanate from the great unwashed; in this case garlic seemed to be the prevailing perfume. It was a mixed crowd, however, and women in silks rubbed shoulders with women in tattered gowns, all moved by the one thought--self-preservation. Most of them, I judged by their cries and gasps, were almost insane with terror. But there were heroines among them. Two women near me were holding an animated conversation. "Say," said one, "ain't it time that this war wuz over? Why don't they stop? I haven't been in bed to stay for over six nights, and I'm getting tired of it all." The answer told the real spirit of the average British woman, a spirit that was doing much to win the war. "Liza," replied the first speaker's companion, in a somewhat indignant voice, "Bill's over there, ain't 'e? 'E's tryin' to stop that ---- blighter from treatin' us like 'e did the women of Belgium and France. 'E's gettin' this every day, and still smiles and sticks it. Yer can't git me to say stop it. Carry on is my motter till the ---- Hun is slugged out of existence." This rough, humble Cockney woman displayed the same spirit that was being shown by the Women's Army Auxiliary Corps in France. The girls of this corps took it upon themselves to do the work that was being done by men who thought themselves permanently installed in bomb-proof jobs. What is more, they did it well. Take this one instance. During the German drive of 1918, some of these girls were working in canteens a short distance behind the front line. As the Germans swept forward with irresistible might, and had almost reached the camps and billets where the W.A.A.C.'s were, the girls were ordered to leave the danger zone in motor lorries. They refused, saying: "Those waggons can be used to carry wounded men back; we can walk." And walk they did; slinging their packs on their backs and marching nineteen miles over rough, muddy roads. But not all of them; some of the boldest stayed behind to see that the boys got hot tea or coffee to revive their tired, in most cases, wounded and broken bodies. Their courage brought them under shell-fire; but they carried on dauntlessly. During my last days in London, when I was singing at one of their hostels, I met four of these women, each of whom had lost a leg, and one was proudly wearing a Military Medal. The woman of the tube and the refined W.A.A.C.'s were "sisters under the skin." Had the former had her way, she would have been at Bill's side, handing him cartridges while he potted the enemy. While I was at the Bungalow, we had a somewhat thrilling experience from air raids. In September, 1917, the raiders were exceptionally bold, and during the first ten days of the month visited London no fewer than eight times. Night after night we were roused by the whistling of sirens and the bursting of maroons, thin shells that made a big noise, warning all that an air raid was in progress, and giving pedestrians and others a chance to take shelter from enemy bombs and the shrapnel of the anti-aircraft guns, the latter even a greater menace to those in the open than the former. On one of these nights I, with two Canadian chums, sightless like myself, had just entered the Bungalow when the maroons began to explode and the whistles to shriek. Bed was out of the question. Besides, the matron, Mrs. Craven, would be up on the instant to look after her boys. True to form, the matron appeared, and we drew up one of the Davenports in front of a cheerful grate fire. "Are all you boys feeling right?" asked the matron. Before we had time to answer, the anti-aircraft guns opened up their barrage. They seemed to be shooting right over the Bungalow, for pieces of shrapnel clattered on the roof like great hailstones. One piece, about a pound in weight, smashed through the roof and into the matron's room. As we sat there, overhead we could hear the angry droning of the Hun planes and the whistling rush of the dropping bombs, each moment expecting one to crash among us. A bomb that dropped near by, in St. John's Wood, sounded as it if were going to pay us a visit, and I nervously remarked: "This one is ours, Matron!" "Well, Rawlinson," she replied, without a quiver in her voice, "we are still soldiers, you know, and if it comes, what better could we ask than a soldier's death." That night four bombs dropped in the grounds within a radius of four hundred yards, but fortunately none of them did any material damage. On another night we were being entertained at one of the delightful concerts arranged for us by the staff. The concert was at its height when the guns opened up. Our entertainers suggested stopping the performance, but we objected to having such a trifling matter as an air raid interfere with our fun, and the concert went merrily on, and before it was over the Huns were beating it for home, chased by daring British aviators. On several occasions the raiders hove in sight after the inmates of the Bungalow were all in bed. But Sir Arthur had seen to it that we should be warned in time, so that in case we received a direct hit we should not be caught like rats in a trap. News of the approaching raiders was sent in by the telephone simultaneously with its receipt by the police authorities, and one of the orderlies on watch visited the rooms and roused the men, instructing any who so wished to take refuge in the shrapnel-proof cellars over at the House. Needless to say, none of the boys rushed for shelter--not from our ward, at any rate. We either got up and dressed to enjoy the thrill of listening to the droning planes, bursting bombs, and clattering shrapnel, or lay in bed, quietly taking the whole matter with philosophical indifference. The danger signal came as soon as the raiders crossed the East Coast, and then all was hubbub and excitement in London until the "all clear" was sounded by that gallant little--little in body, but big in heart--band of boys known as the Boy Scouts, who were posted at every police station. No doubt many of us felt a bit "windy" during these raids, but in the presence of the other fellow we would not show it. Our buildings and grounds, right in the heart of London, were most conspicuous; and, besides, Regent's Park was not without its military importance, for in it were kept the aerodrome stores. Its lake and the canal which runs between it and the Zoo, made it a shining mark for the Hun bombers. But we stood our ground fearlessly through all these raids, listening to the din of this aerial warfare, awed not so much by the explosions as by the bedlam created in the Zoo, where, as soon as a raid was on, the lions roared, elephants madly trumpeted, monkeys chattered, parrots shrieked, and wolves howled dismally. CHAPTER VII ROYAL VISITORS St. Dunstan's was frequently visited by British aristocracy, but, by all odds, the most interesting visitors were members of the Royal Family. His Majesty, King George, dropped in on more than one occasion, just like an ordinary citizen, without the usual frills and pageantry that accompany Royalty. In his visit to St. Dunstan's he went through the place without even an equerry in attendance. He showed a deep and sincere interest in the training and work of the men. He seemed to be a little sceptical about our ability as poultry-raisers. On one occasion, when visiting the poultry-house while a class was being instructed, he signified that he would like a practical test of the power of the blind to distinguish different breeds of fowls. The attendant caught a bird and handed it to one of the students, an Imperial officer, by the way, and scarcely had he touched it before he correctly pronounced it a Plymouth Rock. The King was still sceptical, and a second and third bird were handed the demonstrator, and the birds were properly named. This convinced His Majesty that, though blind, the men could "carry on" in what seemed to him an incredibly difficult occupation for the sightless. [Illustration: Mat Weaving] Her Majesty, Queen Mary, took an equally active interest in our hostel. I met her under peculiar circumstances at the Bungalow. I had just entered the Lounge from the Shorthand Room, when I heard the "Skipper" calling me. I went up to him through an opening between a line of chairs. When I reached Captain McMahon, he said: "Her Majesty, Queen Mary, wishes to meet you, Rawlinson." And to the Queen he remarked: "This is Rawlinson, who is learning to be a stenographer." Her Majesty showed genuine interest in me, as she did in all the boys, and asked me many questions about my wound, the circumstances under which I received it, and what part of the line I was operating in when I was struck. She then questioned me about the progress I was making with my work, and about my life in the Bungalow. She finally complimented me on my ability in finding my way about despite my handicap. It is not every day that a private has the privilege of chatting familiarly with a queen, and in my vanity I answered: "I know my surroundings at St. Dunstan's as well as I do the palm of my hand." After a moment's silence, I asked Captain Mac if that was all he wanted of me. He said that would do, and I turned to depart. But while talking to the Queen I must have turned slightly without knowing it, and I had lost my bearings. I stepped out boldly, and tumbled clean over one of the chairs, and that after boasting to Her Majesty that I knew the place "as well as I do the palm of my hand." It was truly literally a case of pride going before a fall. About half an hour later, I was going down the garden walk leading to the Outer Circle, when I heard women's voices farther down the path. I honk-honked--the usual signal of the boys when wishing the right of way. Among the party in front of me was the Matron of the House, who said to me: "Come on, Rawlinson, the way is all clear." "Is that you, Matron," I replied; then, in a simulated injured tone, I remarked that I had been talking to Queen Mary that afternoon, and: "Would you believe it, Matron, she had not the good manners to shake hands with a guy." The Matron answered me in a somewhat flurried tone: "Her Majesty is here, Rawlinson." Needless to say, I was somewhat abashed. Canada had gone far beyond his objective, as usual, but Canada was unfamiliar with retreat, and I determined to stand by my guns. "Well," said I, "will she shake hands now?" "I surely will," replied the Queen. She did it with a firm pressure that showed genuine feeling. She then asked me if I were out for a walk. "No," I replied, "I'm going to meet another queen. Two queens in one afternoon is not bad going for an old Canuck, is it?" "It certainly is not," she replied. "And I do hope," she added with a merry laugh, "that the other queen will not forget to shake hands when she meets you." As I went away I heard her remark that that is "a very cheerful boy; his blindness does not seem to trouble him much." She was right. It did not by this time. I had so far progressed with my work that the future was assured; work and happiness I could still find in this old world. While at St. Dunstan's I had still another meeting with Royalty. One day I was walking up the Lounge, along the strip sacred to the sightless, when bump I went against someone who was stooping over while questioning another student. I had collided with a woman, who immediately turned and apologized most profusely for being in my way. She was most sorry that she "did not see me coming." I was in an irritated mood; the sightless always are under such circumstances. A collision of this sort always reminds them of their handicap, a thing they delight to ignore. Impatiently, I replied: "That's all right, ma'am. But if you people with eyes, when you visit us, would only remember that there are some men here that cannot see just as well as they once did, it would make it easier for us." Again she apologized, and took my hand, giving it such a hearty, sympathetic pressure that I felt somewhat ashamed of myself for my hasty words. As I renewed my walk up the Lounge, one of the V.A.D.'s overtook me, and asked what had happened. I told her, and she almost took my breath away by telling me that I had been "saucing" Her Most Gracious Majesty, Queen Alexandra. I quite expected to be "on the carpet" before the chief for my words, for Sir Arthur was standing by, and must have heard them. But Sir Arthur had a way of avoiding causing his boys the slightest pain, and he no doubt knew that when I realized to whom I had spoken so hastily, my chagrin would be sufficient punishment. I hope the good Queen has forgiven my lack of courtesy, and forgotten the incident--a thing I am not likely to do. CHAPTER VIII IN PLAYTIME It was not all work at St. Dunstan's. Sports were encouraged and fostered in every way; but rowing and tug-of-war were by far the most popular. Fully sixty per cent. of the men went in for rowing, and some very skilful and powerful oarsmen were turned out. There were two regattas each year. The preliminary heats of each regatta were pulled off on the lake that runs into the grounds of the House, and the finals took place on the River Thames. Single sculls, pair-oars, and fours were our strong points. The Bungalow turned out two men who had no superiors on the river either sighted or sightless. Sergeant Barry, at one time the world's champion sculler, coached the team during the seasons of 1917 and 1918. So successful were the Canadians that there are now a number of St. Dunstan's rowing prizes in Canada. The tug-of-war team, of which I was a member, was quite as successful as the oarsmen. Indeed, we lost only one point during the whole season. We treated all comers alike: they were there to be pulled over; and we saw to it that they came. The following was our war song; we sang it going to the grounds, and we sang it coming away. The Canucks are on the rope, on the rope, on the rope; Their breasts are full of hope, full of hope, full of hope; They tell the teams they pull against That they're out to win the cup. Canadians do your bit, do your bit, show your grit; Lay back on that rope, legs well braced; never sit. Make your snow-clad country proud Of her boys who are on the line. Chorus-- Take the strain, take the strain; First a heave, then a pull, then again. The boys are pulling, the boys are pulling; Yes, they're pulling with might and main. Take the strain, take the strain; First a heave, then a pull, then again. They'll come over; they'll come over; For the timber wolves are winning once again. Not a very elaborate piece of poetry, and sadly deficient in metre and rhyme; but it certainly did mean much to us when we heard our supporters singing it. We sang it to the tune of "Over there." Out of justice to my comrades, I must plead guilty of composing it. The average weight of the team was only 145lbs., but what the men lacked in weight was made up in grit. The team was chosen from fifteen Canadians, all who were at the Bungalow at the time; and seven of the nine men who comprised the team were "black" blind. Yet this team beat the pick of five hundred others. I have heard some of the men of the other teams asking: "Why do they always pull us over? We are heavier, man for man we are stronger, and we have more sight than they have." One of the opponents discovered the secret, and thus expressed himself: "I know what it is; it's the--what they themselves call 'pep'; it's the vim they put into the game; it's the enthusiasm they have for all sorts of sport. I was billeted close to some of them on the Somme; they were always the same whether in or out of the line." He hit the nail on the head. The Canadians had the vim, the dogged determination; they would not submit to defeat, even in sport. My mention of lack of sight among the men might seem superfluous to those who have not pulled on a tug-of-war team. The advantage of sight lies in the fact that a man to use his strength to the best advantage must make a straight pull. If any member of the team is pulling at an angle, those behind him are wasting their own pull while minimizing his. For success, all must pull together, and the rope must be kept straight and taut. Theatricals did much to add pleasure to our lives. We not only enjoyed those of outside performers, but we put on several plays, and the boys took their parts well, and a prompter was very little in evidence. The sighted are at a loss to understand how a drama, comedy, or sketch can be enjoyed by the sightless. But the spoken word acts on the inward eye, and the entire stage is revealed as vividly to the brain as if it were carried there by sight. One of the annoying things to a sightless person is to have some sighted friend sit by him at a play, describing costumes and scenery. The blind have no need of such aids. Chief among our sources of amusement was the Rag-time Band, which did much to enliven our idle hours. Any who have been lucky enough to hear this band have had a rare treat. It was composed entirely of men who had been "over," and had lost their sight. But this loss of sight had not lessened their love of music or their power of musical expression, as many of the boys who were in hospital in London can testify. High-class singers, theatrical parties, in fact, all the leading theatrical performers and many minor ones, paid their tribute to the boys by entertaining them with song and sketch; but no performance had quite the same popularity as the rag-time discoursed by the "blind boys." And the remarkable thing about the band is that it is doubtful if any member had ever, before going to St. Dunstan's, played a more elaborate instrument than a Jew's-harp or a mouth organ. The side-drummer, who played the side-drum, bass drum, cymbals, Chinese block, motor-horn, triangle, and clappers was a boy who had lost both eyes. I have vivid recollections of the celebration at St. Dunstan's on Armistice Day, November 11th, 1918; on that day the band excelled itself, and played as if it meant that its music should be heard in Germany. This occasion is one that will live long in the memory of those of us who were at St. Dunstan's when the "scrap of paper" virtually ending the war was signed. Our Rag-time Band then really came into its own. Ask London. She will tell you that there was never a more popular band in the city. The students of St. Dunstan's paraded through the streets of the great metropolis in full regalia. As an initial step to our parade, we managed somehow or other to secure a disused old fire-engine, and on this the band piled. Sir Arthur's battalion lined up in fours and followed. Through the busiest streets of the city we marched with, at first, about two hundred and fifty men in the parade. But before we had finished we extended over more than a quarter of a mile. A procession of munitioners happened to meet us, and when they found out who we were they immediately tacked themselves onto our little line. We marched to Buckingham Palace, and here we were halted by our leader--a Canadian, by the way. It seems that word had been passed to their Majesties that the St. Dunstan's men were outside. At any rate, they both came out, and I doubt if his Majesty ever had such a salute as was given him on that day. Sergeant-Major George Eades, a Canadian pioneer, drooped the colours with a flag that could not have measured more than a foot square; but his Majesty took the salute and answered it. [Illustration: Sightless Canadian Four] Besides the amusements already mentioned, dances were held frequently and thoroughly enjoyed. Then, as I have said, there was rowing, and Regent's Park Lake was constantly visited by blind lads and their friends to enjoy this sport. We had even a four-oared Canadian crew--all blind, and as they skimmed over the lake, rowing in perfect time, an observer would have difficulty in detecting that they were sightless. CHAPTER IX MEMORIES OF THE FIGHTING FRONT During my early days at St. Dunstan's, I was inclined to brood a bit, and the past was constantly before my mind's eye; but gradually under occupation the past became shadowy, and the future was for me the only reality. Even the scenes through which I had passed in the months I was at the front took on the semblance of a dream--sometimes a nightmare; but it seemed to me that it was not I--the St. Dunstan's student--who had endured cold and wet and forced marches, who had felt the shock of high-explosive shells, the stinging threat of machine-gun and rifle bullets, who had taken part in wild charges over the top, but some other being. However, in the stillness of the night, one incident I had experienced, one scene I had witnessed, kept constantly recurring to my mind with a vividness that kept the World War and my humble part in it a stern reality for me. The affair in question occurred on April 19th, 1917. Ten days before, on Easter Monday--a red-letter day for the Canadians, but a day black as night for the Germans--the troops from the Dominion had in one swift forward movement swept the enemy from positions which he had thought impregnable along Vimy Ridge. For days after that, we wallowed around in the mud, gaining a village here, a trench there, and driving him from hills and wood fastnesses. All the time we were expecting that he would come back in force to make a mighty effort to regain the territory he had held for over two years against the British and the French. He had apparently proved his right to it, and since September 15th, 1916, had been resting at his ease in his underground dug-outs and capacious caverns. On the night of the 19th, the battalion to which I belonged had just ended a tour of duty in the front line. We were to be relieved by another battalion of the 3rd Division of the Canadian Corps. There was but one road out, a road which at that time was considered a masterpiece of road-building. Three days had been allotted for its construction. The Imperial engineers contended that the task was an impossible one, but G.H.Q. said it would have to be done, and the Canadian engineers were assigned the work. To their credit, it was completed in the stipulated time. To retire from the side of the ridge facing the German position, it was necessary to take this road, and, as the crest of it was under almost continuous shell-fire, for safety we were sent over in sections of ten men at a time. This territory had all been in Fritzie's hands, and he knew every inch of it. The road was a vital spot, and more shells were dropped on it than upon any other place of the same area on the Western front. On the top, about two hundred yards away, lay the ruined village of Thelus; once in it we should be comparatively safe. I was in the last section of my platoon, and at the top I paused to look about me at the scene that presented itself. It was horrible; it was glorious; it was magnificent--it was War. The centre of the road was fairly clear, but at the edges all was chaos. The night was a wonderful one; the moon was shining in all her glory, and pale stars twinkled in the sky. In the bright moonlight I could see all about me dead and wounded men, wounded men who would surely "go West," for, once down, the chance of escape from that hell-hole was slight. Here and there were great W.D. waggons, G.S. waggons, ammunition mules bearing 6-inch howitzer and the smaller 18-pounder equipment--in fact, everything that was in any way connected with the grim business that was being carried on. Here and there, too, through this chaos of war, ration parties wended their way to and from the front line trenches. Just as we reached the crest of the ridge, that spur of France that had taken such heavy toll from Hun and Ally, we heard a warning shout: "Keep to the edge of the road!" We wondered at the caution. The middle of the road was comparatively clean, while towards the edges it was ankle-deep in sticky mud, and we had been floundering around in a quagmire for the last eleven days. But we soon knew the reason; for while we hesitated up came a battery of guns at full gallop--big howitzers at that. Drivers shouted; horses plunged and tugged at their traces; the guns bounded and rattled in and out of the shell-holes that pitted the road, sometimes seeming to be balanced on only one wheel. It was a thrilling sight, such as comes to the eyes of a man only once in a lifetime. It gripped us all. Poor Sergeant Harry Best, our platoon sergeant, who was near me, relieved the tension by exclaiming: "Get that, Jim! You will never see such a sight again, even if you stayed out here for fifty years. If a painter were to put that sight on canvas he would be laughed at as a dreamer." I said, poor Sergeant Best! He had seen the sight of his lifetime, but he was not long to enjoy it, for the next trip in, when he was all ready to go to London to take his commission, he was "sent West" by a bomb from a trench mortar. Harry was a little strict, but he was dead fair, and, best of all, a thorough soldier. How is it that nearly all the good ones get, or seem to get, the worst of the deal; they certainly play for the most part in hard luck. But then they take risks that the "safety-first" soldier never takes. CHAPTER X THE POINT OF VIEW OF THE SIGHTLESS When I began to write this personal narrative I had two main thoughts in mind. My first was that no work written on the World War would be complete without some account of the transference of the soldier back from khaki to mufti; my second, and to my mind the more important, was to show the man himself, suffering from a serious handicap, that one of the greatest truths in this life of ours is: there is nothing that a man cannot do, if he _has_ to. This needs explanation. There are few men who have come out of this war just as they went into it. Apart from injuries they have sustained, there is unavoidably a new outlook upon life, gained by their sojourn in the trenches. No matter who the man is, no matter how settled were his views on the management of this old world, his stay "over there" has changed his point of view. His whole mental attitude has undergone something of the nature of a revolution in the crucible of war. Up the "line," he saw things stripped to the buff, saw life and death in all their nakedness. The veneer of so-called civilization has been worn off, and the _real man_ shows through. That, to my mind, is why friendships made amid the blood, mud, hunger, and grime of the trenches are friendships that will endure through life. It is there _Man_ meets _Man_, and admires him. I have met men in the trenches to whom, had I met them in ordinary life, I would not have given a second thought. When they first came to the front they were known as "sissies," but not for long. They, for the most part, quickly acquired that character and bearing that is the rule of the trenches. There were exceptions, of course, but not many. As I write there comes to my mind a little incident that happened in a dug-out in a trench known to the 9th Brigade as Mill Street. Those who were there at the time will remember it from the fact that the body of a French soldier was lying half buried under the parapet at one of the entrances. Poor Frenchy's whole right side was showing from the foot to the waist line. The day of which I write had been rather warm. A working party had been out repairing a firing step and revetting the trench. A "sissy" came down the steps of the dug-out, mopping his forehead with a handkerchief;--fancy any one carrying a handkerchief in the front line; one had essentials enough to carry without being burdened with such a feminine article;--another of the boys was sitting writing a letter with his ground-sheet under him in the mud. The sissified one blurted out: "Holy gee! but I'm perspiring profusely." The kid writing the letter looked up and sarcastically answered, "Wouldn't sweatin' like 'ell be more to the point." Later in my military career I had a chat with the commander of the company to which the "sissy" belonged, and he incidentally remarked that the lad had turned out to be one of the most reliable and plucky fellows in the battalion. I have often wondered since if that little remark "sweatin' like hell" had not helped him to buck up and fit into his general surroundings. Since I have been sightless, two things have deeply impressed themselves on my mind. The first is that no person with sight can, or ever will be able to, see from a blind man's point of view; the second, that no one who can see can ever understand or gauge a blind man's capabilities or limitations. When I speak of a blind man in this sketch, I, of course, refer to those who have suddenly been deprived of sight. Of the man who was born blind or who became sightless early in life I do not profess to know anything. But the viewpoint of the blind is, in the majority of cases, different from that of the sighted--I mean in the matter of earning one's living and making oneself independent of charity. The man who has been blinded in battle has seen life--and death for that matter--stripped of all its frills and flounces. His mind and viewpoint have been enlarged and broadened by his life in the Army. But he sees life from an angle that is denied the sighted. To be made into a wage-earner he must be handled rightly. He must not be "mollycoddled"; to do so would be to leave him a burden to himself and to his friends. He must not be made to feel that he is an object to be set in a corner where he can hurt neither himself nor others. It does not do to treat blind men in the lump; they must be handled individually. Each and every case stands by itself. Tact, and a lot of it, patience, and perseverance are the essentials for re-making a man who has lost his sight, into what he desires to be--a being capable of earning a living and producing results in the industrial world. For the attainment of this end, two things are necessary--confidence and independence. Once he has learned these, he has won half his battle--a hard battle, how hard he alone realizes. For my own part, my first two months of blindness, at least, were Hell with a capital H. Let me illustrate what I mean by confidence and independence. Whilst at St. Dunstan's, I was, for some reason or other, given the job on quite a few occasions of meeting men who were feeling rather harder than was thought necessary the darkness that enveloped them. If a man came in feeling that there was nothing in life for him now that he was blind, I was given the task of cheering him up and showing him, if I could--and I have the satisfaction of knowing that I did not often fail--that this old world was not such a bad place, even if one's lights were put out. One case stands out with prominence, and when I look back at the results of my work after twelve months have passed, it is not without a measure of pride. One Saturday afternoon, a young Canadian came to the Bungalow. He was talked to by both the Adjutant and the Matron, who did all in their power to "buck" him up. They failed hopelessly, as the "kid" felt too far gone; he just would not try to look at the bright side of life. Then some one suggested that he be brought over to "Rawly." When we met, I began our conversation with: "Well, kid, how are things?" He snapped back: "For God's sake, another preacher!" It was somewhat of a staggerer, but I had been through it all myself, and understood the boy's feelings perfectly. In the darkness that sealed his eyes he was forced to grope his way about stumblingly, usually with the help of a guide. He had not yet gained confidence in his own powers. I straightway determined to inspire him with that confidence. In the first days of my sojourn at St. Dunstan's, I, for a time, felt that never again should I be able to step out into the world except with halting step and a horror of what might happen. The management of the institution had constructed an elaborate system of gravel paths, along which were wooden palings which would prevent the students losing their way. A knob in these palings told of a turning; a plank served to warn that we were approaching steps or a steep incline. In the work-rooms and through out the entire buildings, strips of carpet served as a guide to the feet. But it took time to gain confidence even with these aids; and then they were confined to the buildings and grounds. Confidence would only come when one was able to navigate his way alone through busy thoroughfares. Shortly after entering St. Dunstan's I determined to venture out alone. A guide accompanied me on my outward journey, but I dismissed him and determined to find my way back without help. I cautiously kept to the outside of the walk, using my stick as a guide, but I had not calculated on obstructing posts; bump I went into one, but nothing daunted, I kept on. I was about to test the hardness of another with my head when a sympathetic soul seized me by the arm and saved me just in time. I asked him to direct me to the wall bordering the walk. He did so; but I had not taken into consideration the fact that there were stores with goods out for display in front of them. I was first made aware of this by hitting a somewhat flimsily-constructed fruit stand. At this moment a motorcycle a few feet away back-fired viciously. It sounded like the explosion of a shell. Vimy and its horrors came back on the instant, and I involuntarily ducked for safety, or, rather, sprawled forward at full length. Down came the fruit stand, and there I lay among apples, oranges, and bananas. Kindly hands helped me to my feet, and set me on my way. My first experience of solitary walking out had been a rough one, and for a time I felt beaten, and had very much the attitude of this boy towards the future. But my experiences would help him. I had conquered in time, and could journey about freely without even the aid of a stick. I would not let him know that I was "black" blind, but I would take him out with me and show him what the blind could do unaided if they would only bring into play their latent powers. We chatted for a time about the war, and the prospect of his return to Canada and his friends. He gradually thawed out, and took me in a measure into his confidence. But he was still in the depths, and continually referred to his deplorable lot. There was, he said, nothing in this world for him now, and he added pathetically: "I'm only twenty years old; I have seen practically nothing, and as both my eyes are out, I never shall be able to enjoy life and nature. I wish I had got the full issue instead of half of it; I should have been a lot better off." Now, there is an unfailing means to get on the good side of any one who has spent any time in "Blighty," and that is to suggest tea. So I asked him if he would not like a cup and some cake: I knew, I said, a nice tea-room where we could get a good cup. "Yes," he replied, "I should enjoy something to drink; but who will take me to your tea-room?" "Come with me," I said; "I will be your pilot." So away we toddled out of the Bungalow and down the rails which run round the Outer Circle, right through Clarence Gate, down Upper Baker Street, past the Tube, and across the road to Gentle's. Well, we had the tea; and companionship and the refreshments seemed to cheer up the lad. At any rate, he began to talk about things they told him he could learn at St. Dunstan's; and I seized the opportunity to say: "Well, things are not quite as bad as they seemed at first, eh? You see we got down here all right." This was in answer to his saying that one would always be compelled to depend on a guide in his ramblings. "Yes," he replied, "we got here all right, but you can see some. It's easy for you guys to talk about getting around by yourselves when you can see, be it never so dimly; but remember that I have both my eyes out." This was what I had been working for and waiting for all afternoon. I wanted him to think that I could see; my turn would come sooner or later, and my answer to him would make him buck up if anything could. "Eh, old boy," I said, with a degree of exultation; "I am as 'black' blind as you are. I have one eye, it is true, but it is na-poo, finis, just as much as your's are." "Do you really mean that, Jim?" he asked. "I certainly do; and you just fell into the bear-pit I had ready for you." "Well, let me tell you," he said, with stern determination, "if you have done this, here's another boy who can do likewise." That boy returned to Canada with a full knowledge of poultry-breeding and egg-producing, basket-making, rough carpentry, and all kinds of string work, such as hammock and net weaving. He became one of the brightest and happiest students in St. Dunstan's, and, incidentally, I might mention that that same lad, who felt himself down and out for all time, developed into one of the best dancers that ever put foot in slipper. [Illustration: Basket Making] Another lad--an Australian, this time--wanted to go over the House. I acted as his pilot, and on our way back to the Bungalow he asked me how much I could see. I told him, "nothing." He answered: "Say, Digger, I've been taking some chances, haven't I? But this I will tell you, the next time I want to come over here I am going to find the way myself." All that those boys needed was to realize that others who were handicapped as they were could work and move about on their own initiative, and they would be quick to follow their example. Confidence is infectious; it passes from one individual to another. Above all, it is the absolute foundation for success in a man who cannot see--or, for that part of it, in any man. I have said sufficient to show that the man from whom the external world is suddenly shut out is still able to "carry on." For my own part, I have returned to Canada, and am busy in useful employment, working among comrades similarly situated with myself. Three years ago, had any one told me that a blind man could qualify as a stenographer I should have ridiculed the idea. But I am now able to take dictation in Braille shorthand at the rate of one hundred and twenty words per minute and then transcribe my notes on any typewriting machine on the market just as speedily as the ordinary sighted typist. And I never operated a typewriting machine before I became a student at St. Dunstan's. As I said, I am back in Canada, and not getting my living through charity. What I am I owe to St. Dunstan's, and while labouring here my heart ever goes back to dear old England. I feel towards St. Dunstan's--and so do all the boys who have passed through her halls--as does the grown man for the place of his birth. She is home for me. I was born again and nurtured into a new manhood by her, led by her from stygian darkness to mental and spiritual light, and my heart turns with longing towards her. At times, separation from the genial atmosphere of this paradise of the sightless, from contact with the dominating, kindly presence of Sir Arthur Pearson and his noble assistants, weighs heavily upon my spirits. But there is work to be done here in Canada, and, in a humble way, I am able to continue the good work done at St. Dunstan's; if not in a militant way, at least by example, taking my place among the producers, toiling daily with hands and brain. 
14963	----	[Transcriber's Note: Inconsistencies in spelling and punctuation have been retained as in the original.] [Illustration: MARY L. DAY ARMS] THE WORLD AS I HAVE FOUND IT. SEQUEL TO Incidents in the Life of a Blind Girl. BY MARY L. DAY ARMS. WITH AN INTRODUCTION By Rev. Charles F. Deems, LL.D. BALTIMORE: PUBLISHED BY JAMES YOUNG, 112 West Baltimore Street. ENTERED, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1878, by MARY L. DAY ARMS, In the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. INTRODUCTION. Mrs. Arms has asked me to write an introduction to her book. It hardly seems to need it. The title-page shows that it was written by one who is blind. It is a sequel to another volume. That volume has been widely sold, and all who read it will, I am sure, have some desire to see how the stream of the life of its writer has been flowing since her first book was written. Her patient perseverance under privations has won her a large circle of personal friends, who will take pleasure in procuring and preserving this fresh memento of the Blind Girl. Such a book as this has a value which, probably, has not occurred to its author. She has put on record the phenomena of her life as she has recollected them, with great simplicity, merely for the entertainment of her readers, without attaching any importance to the value which every such memoir has in the department of science. But it is just from the study of such phenomena as these that the students in mental and moral philosophy learn the laws of mind and the operations of a human soul under a divine, moral government. As a matter of taste we might omit the writer's description of her husband, whom she never yet has seen, p. 45, and her account of her love affairs, p. 49; and if we had discretionary editorship, and the volume had been written by one having always had her sight, we should unhesitatingly exclude such passages. But, as the records of the impressions, consciousnesses and general mental phenomena of a blind girl _in love_, they stand to be, perhaps, quoted hereafter in some abstruse scientific treatise, or bloom out in some perennial poem. There is an immediate practical usefulness in such a book as this. It has its wholesome lesson for the young. It shows what strength of character and vigor of purpose will accomplish under even extraordinary embarrassments. The young lady had a hard early life. She had neither friends nor money nor sight, but she unwhiningly took up the task of taking care of herself, and discharged it so nobly as to make for herself a wide circle of friends, and keep for herself that sense of self-reliance as toward man, and of faith as toward God, which are worth more than all the dirty dollars that wickedness can give to weakness. Let our young women who are in straitened circumstances, in circumstances that seem absolutely exclusive of all hope of retaining virtue and keeping life, read this book and its predecessor, and pluck up faith and hope. Let all our young ladies, daughters of loving parents, daughters who have no care for the morrow, daughters of delicious ease and happy opportunity, read this book, and then let their consciences ask them how they are to carry their idleness to be examined at the judgment sent of Christ, in contrast with this blind girl's industry, fidelity and perseverance. CHARLES F. DEEMS. CHURCH OF THE STRANGERS, New York, 4th July, 1878. CHAPTER I. "Warriors and statesmen have their meed of praise, And what they do, or suffer, men record; While the long sacrifice of woman's days Passes without a thought, without a word: And many a holy struggle for the sake Of duty, _sternly_, _faithfully_ fulfil'd; For which the anxious soul must watch and wait, Goes by unheeded as the summer wind, And leaves no _memory_, and no trace behind! Yet, it may be, more lofty courage dwells In one meek heart that braves an adverse fate, Than his whose ardent soul indignant swells, Warmed by the fight, or cheered through high debate. The soldier dies surrounded; could he _live Alone_ to suffer, and alone to strive?" So was rendered the sad soul-music of one of the legion, "Who learned in sorrow What they taught in song." and the weird words have been echoed by the voice of many a woman all along, whose weary wanderings have burned the sacrificial fires; amid the ashes of whose dead hopes the embers have flickered and faded only to rekindle the lurid, lustrous light of added, and still added offerings. There, waiting and watching the deep tracery "upon the sands beside the sounding sea," find wave after wave wash away the mystic hand-writing. The ebbing tide carries afar the ships freighted with aching, anguished hearts; when borne upon the swell of the flowing sea, come the swift sails of Argosies richly laden with hope, full with fruition. Within the heart of all there lies deeply imbedded the "Black Drop" of which the Mahometan legend tells, and which the angel revealed to the Prophet of Allah. 'Tis in aching anguish this drop must be probed and purified, to be healed only through the endless eloquence of duty done. The sightless eyes have vivid visions. Theirs is the light in darkness which stirred the soul of a Milton with a "gift divine;" inspired a Homer with the "fire and frenzy" which crowned an Iliad and an Odyssey, the master pieces of Epic verse; gave to the antique and traditional literature of the Celtic race its meteoric brilliancy, and produced the weird, wondrous sublimity of an Ossian. All who have read the Invocation to Light by the blind authoress, Mrs. De Kroyft, must have realized the luminous light of a soul sublimated by sorrow and swelling and soaring in eloquent strains. 'Tis but a simple song I must sing, a bird-note amid cathedral tones; but may not its minstrelsy meet the heart and search the soul of many a sorrowing one, or rise like the song of the nightingale to the throne of Him who sees the lives enthralled? If this little lesson of life can find a single searcher for the truth it tells, or bear on the breath of the breeze "one soft Æolian strain," may I not hope that it may help to swell the harp-notes of the heavenly harmonies? CHAPTER II. "I remember, I remember How my childhood fleeted by-- The mirth of its December, And the warmth of its July." In a former volume I have recounted the varied scenes of an eventful childhood, whose auroral dawn was tinted with the rose-hue and perfumed with the breath of light-winged moments; even as the Goddess of the Morning ushers in the new-born day with her flower-laden chariot, and the bright Morning Star lends its light ere it sinks under the horizon. Having my birth on the rich soil of a Southern land, and cradled under its tropical skies and sunny smiles, I was early transplanted to colder climes and ruder blasts, yet through the nurture of a mother's gentle hand, and the ministrations of a loving band of sisters and brothers, whose talismanic touch toned every note, softened every sorrow and heightened every hope, I could but bloom like an Alpine flower in its bed of snow. But in the golden chain there came to be, in time, a "missing link;" the mother's life went out, and from the darkened fireside vanished the little flock, scattered through various ways to various destinies. My own was a slippery path to tread, and ofttimes led my weary feet into the shadow, and gloom, and darkness. Through sickness, neglect and maltreatment came all too soon "sorrow's crown of sorrow;" when over the young life fell a dark pall, and eyes so used to light no longer held the prisoned sunbeams, and passed forever under the relentless bond and cruel curse of blindness. Then indeed my soul grew dark! And could my restless eyes wait in thraldom for the dawn of an eternal day, and must my wandering feet pass through the "valley of the shadow," ere I could see the light "around the Great White Throne?" Through a singular complication of circumstances I was led to the home of a sister in Chicago, from whom I had long been separated; and by equally singular ways I was also there reunited to three of my brothers (Charles, William and Howard). Then my veiled vision could not shut out the loved lineaments living in the pictured halls of memory--the vision of a love-hallowed home, and a mother's face crowning all. Scenes and faces gone, passed like a panorama before my mind's eye, and "So the blessed train passed by me, But the vision was sealed upon my soul." Through the agency of family friends I returned to my birth-place, and with strange and mingled emotions was welcomed back to Baltimore, with kind greetings from relatives and friends. Some had passed beyond the portal of earthly existence, and others unexpectedly reappeared, among whom was my father, whose face I could not see, but whose emotion betokened great anguish at the sight of his blind daughter. Oh how many memories must have passed through his mind, as he clasped to his heart his chastened, motherless child, and, while other loves and other ties were his, "the shades of friends departed" as told by Longfellow must have entered a weird train, and amid other angel footsteps must have come-- "That being beauteous Who unto his youth was given; More than all things else to love him, And is now a saint in Heaven." Notwithstanding so many former attempts at the restoration of my sight, another effort was made, involving a trip to New York, where a most painful operation was undergone. But, alas! although a brief period was accorded me, in which I saw with rapture objects around me, it was only to be shut out into utter and hopeless sightlessness. As the wounded hare seeks some cover remote from the human ken, so did my sinking soul seek the solace of solitude, where for twenty-four hours I searched my nature to its depths, and made resolves for my future course, known only to God and pitying angels. They alone comforted me then, and they have sustained and soothed through every succeeding trial! CHAPTER III. "The saddest day hath gleams of light, The darkest wave hath bright foam near it. And, twinkles o'er the cloudiest night, Some solitary star to cheer it." In the year 1855, my heart still heavy with its burden of blindness, I entered the Baltimore Institution for the Blind. With kind friends to aid and cheer me, high hopes, rich resolutions and ambitious aims to inspire, I commenced the course of study which was to fit me for my new avocations. Ofttimes was I found in the deep valley of humiliation, where I sat me down and sighed; and in many a "Garden of Gethsemane" were seen the trickling "tears of blood." The cross and the crucifixion came, but afterwards came the resurrection of dead hopes and angels bearing the crown. I must say with undying gratitude to all connected with the Institution, that it is to them I am indebted for the might and the mastery; for while many a daisy was crushed in my path, many a rose bloomed upon a thorny stem, and these kind ones led me at last to the sun-crowned mountain-tops and clear blue skies. After being in school for three years, without consulting with any friend, I wrote, with much difficulty, a letter with pin-type, to Governor Hicks, asking a three years extension of time. I preserved secrecy in this matter in the fear of disappointment, and determined if it came to bear it alone. One day a professor called me to him and said: "You have written to the Governor, and his reply has come." With anxious, nervous silence, I "waited for the verdict," and when it came in an affirmative, how happy and joyous I felt! How determined to push on to the bright goal before me! Meantime I had written a history of my life, and through assistance from ever kind friends had succeeded in securing its publication. A copy of it was sent to the Governor, as a tiny token of my appreciation of his kindness. I afterward accompanied a delegation from our school to Annapolis, where we gave an entertainment. The Governor, coming up to our little group, said, in cheerful tones, "I am going to see if I can recognize the one who wrote the book." And in pursuance of this announcement, easily selected me, and with kindly tones and hearty grasp of the hand, spoke many words of comfort, which are still carefully held in my casket of gems as "Treasures guarded with jealous care And kept as sacred tokens." Continuing my course of studies, I graduated in 1860 with, I hope, a fair degree of honor to myself and my instructors. Just previous to this time there came among our many visitors a good friend from Loudon county, Virginia, named Richard Henry Taylor, who promised if I would visit his home he would furnish me every facility for the sale of my book; and of him I shall have more to say hereafter. Now commenced the real struggle of life. Alone I must brave the world, and with patience bear its frowns or enjoy its smiles, as the case might be. Alone I must earn my bread. Meagre were many times the means and scanty was the allowance, yet they came in the hour of need as manna in the wilderness, ofttimes wet with the dews of heavenly love; and ever, in my laborious pilgrimage, I have been allowed to stand upon Mount Gerizim, to bless the people and the "rulers of the land." CHAPTER IV. "Let us then be up and doing With a heart for any fate; Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labor and to wait." Deeming it proper to inaugurate my work in our nation's capital, I left my "Alma Mater" with all the trepidation of a child going out from the home-roof, and rushed into the exciting and excited vortex, where centralize our national interests, and where, as it were, throbs the great national heart, the city of Washington. I was kindly received at the house of my cousin, Mrs. Reese, in which sanctum my heart took fresh hope and courage. This was during the administration of Mr. Buchanan, and I first repaired to the bachelor President, who received me in his private audience-room with all of his characteristic and chivalrous courtesy. Taking both my hands in his, he said, with deep emotion--"I am so sorry for your deep affliction, but so glad that you have had the energy to write a book and the courage to make it a resource for support. I pray that God may bless and prosper you, and I know he will." After this expression of his faith he showed his works by buying a book, for which he paid me two dollars and a half, more than double its price. So spoke, so did, the noble man, in whose heart was enshrined the memory of one cherished love, the idolized object of which precluded the possibility of a second affection, while the grand heart of the statesman went out in kindness and sympathy to all. My second call was at one of the government offices, where my nervous excitement rendered me so nearly speechless that I could only silently and tremblingly tender a book to a young man who was one of the clerks. Seeing the movement, he asked: "Do you wish, to sell the book?" to which I nodded an affirmative. He turned jocularly toward me, and asked: "Were you ever in love?" Speech suddenly followed in the wake of offended dignity, and I promptly replied: "Sir, I try to love every one." "But," said he, in soaring strain, "suppose a young man should say to you--'You are the cherished idol of my worship, the one sweet flower blooming in my pathway, etc., etc.' what would you think?" I quickly responded: "Sir, I should think he had more poetry than good sense in his composition." Pleased, and apparently thoughtful, he turned from me, and going among the other employees, returned with the money for a dozen copies of my book in his hand, and on his lips a penitent and evidently heartfelt assurance that he meant no harm or insult by his words, humbly craved my pardon for the offense, and closed by wishing me many God speeds. My next effort was in the Treasury Department, where the first person I approached exclaimed: "Mary Day! where did you come from?" This exclamation was followed by many other expressions of joy and surprise. Suddenly the loving arm of a young girl encircled me. Kisses fell upon my forehead, cheek and lips, and words of endearment came in copious pearly showers. At the first lull in the sweet confusion I asked: "Who are you all?" The first proved to be a brother of Mrs. Cook, of Michigan, who had been so kind to me in the past, and the second was her daughter, who rapidly recounted by-gone scenes, and lovingly lingered upon the many cherished memories my presence had evoked. They took me to their home in the city, and lavished upon me all the kindness and attention love could suggest. Among the many reminiscences came the one sad story of the father's death. In one of the darkest, sternest hours of my childhood he had held out to me the kind, paternal hand, and welcomed me to the protection of his own roof, and the story of his death deeply interested me. It was in substance this: The family had returned from some festive scene on Christmas eve, and the father, leaving them to stable his horses, was so long absent as to arouse anxiety. They sought him everywhere, but found him not. After a night of untold suspense the morning revealed to them the shocking sight of his dead body lying in the corner of an adjoining lot, his face smiling and peaceful in death, his arms folded and limbs outstretched. He had been cruelly gored by a creature he had fed and fostered, cherishing it as a pet among his domestic animals, and it had turned upon him as many so-called human creatures repay those who have protected and loved them! They knew not whether his wounds or the intense cold had been the final cause of death, but such was the sad dawning of their Christmas day, and so, amid the joy of my reunion with those dear friends, came the sad thought that-- Ever amid life's roses Will the sombre cypress be twined, And wherever a joy reposes, A dream of sorrow we find. I feel it due to the various government officials at Washington to give them an expression of gratitude for the great facilities afforded me in the way of permits to canvass in the many public departments, knowing their strict rules and rigid restrictions in this regard. I was volunteered an entrée everywhere, from the humblest government office to the Capitol and White House, and in each and all was courteously received. In subsequent years I had also great reason for gratitude to Mr. Colfax, who not only gave his own patronage, but presented me to Congress, the members of which vied with each other in liberality. CHAPTER V. "Thus, with delight, we linger to survey The promised joys of life's unmeasured way; Thus, from afar, each dim discovered scene More pleasing seems than all the rest hath been; And every form that fancy can repair From dark oblivion, glows divinely there." My nature, in its first struggle with the world, shrank, like Mimosa, from every human touch; but the kind words of love and gentle acts of kindness already received transformed and ripened within me a more trusting and hopeful character, and I almost unconsciously accepted as immutable and inevitable the great law of compensation. It is well that it was in the season of youth that my career began, that season which Jean Paul so poetically designates as "The Festival Day of Life," in which period friendship dwells as yet in a serenely open Grecian Temple, not, as in later years, in a narrow Gothic Chapel. My heart accepting as genuine these pure expressions of friendship, I turned from Washington toward Virginia, and after a visit at Leesburg, in which I had good success, I wrote to Mr. Taylor, the friend I have before mentioned, asking him to meet me at Hamilton, which point was reached by the old-time stage-route. Some doubt may have entered my mind as to his remembrance of the promise to meet me, all of which must have been dispelled when, upon the arrival of the stage, a cheery, gentle voice, in a tone which would have filled the darkest moment of doubt with the sun-ray of trust, exclaimed: "How does thee do, Mary?" Miss Rachel Weaver, my companion, was a bright-eyed, sunny-hearted, English girl, whose presence irradiated the atmosphere around her. She was presented to him, and received the same quiet yet cordial greeting. His carriage was in waiting for us, and a refreshing drive of three miles brought us to his cozy home. The reception given us by his excellent wife was characterized by all the depth and warmth of her expanded and exalted nature, and we were at once domiciled as truly "at home." The next day was the beginning of their Quarterly Meeting, and the impressions of a life-time can never efface the varied pictures stamped upon memory by each phase of that religious gathering. Not in a gorgeous chapel of Gothic architecture, frescoed nave and highly wrought transept; no stained glass windows of rainbow hue; no gorgeously draped altar or elaborate organ; but in a simple wooden meeting-house, upon a gently sloping grassy seclusion, came the feet of those "who went up to the worship of God." No robed priest with consecrated head was there, but _all_ were privileged to express with the lips the heart's devotion. Mr. Taylor carried to this meeting a number of my little books, and I am safe in saying that each member of that community bought one of them. At noon we partook of a collation upon the lovely green sward, where sweet words solaced and kind hands tendered me hospitality. Prominent among the guests was Mrs. Hoag, a lady of lovely character and cultured mind, who insisted upon having us accompany her to her home, a mansion rich and elegant in its appointments, and, above all, its halls resounding with the music of innocent mirth, and hung with the "golden tapestry" of love. We remained in this community four weeks, a sweet "season of refreshment," which so gently glided away that we awoke, like those aroused from peaceful sleep and dear dreams of pleasure, renewed and buoyant. Our farewell was not unmingled with sad regret at parting, but upon my return to Baltimore my friends failed not to note the favorable change in my physical and mental condition. So talismanic is the touch of love, so inspiring and life giving! and 'tis to this dear community of Louden county, Virginia, I shall ever trace the first impetus which has given momentum to all the subsequent movements of my life. CHAPTER VI. "The muffled drum's sad roll has beat The soldier's last tattoo: No more on life's parade shall meet That brave and fallen few; On fame's eternal camping ground Their silent tents are spread, And glory guards, with solemn round, The bivouac of the dead." After a short period of reunion with friends in Baltimore, I resolved, notwithstanding the agitated condition of the country, to wend my way southward, for I restlessly yearned for an active continuation of duty. Miss Weaver having other engagements, it became necessary for me to seek another traveling companion. Trusting to the good fortune which had hitherto favored me in that regard, I engaged the services of Miss Mary Chase, who proved a valuable attendant, combining in her character so many graces and endowments, possessing, among her numerous attractions, a voice of rare, rich and mellow flexibility. My uncle, Mr. Heald, having an interest in the Bay Line of steamers, his son, my cousin, Howard Heald, attended me to the steamer Belvidere, introduced me to the captain, and took every precautionary measure to enhance the pleasure of my trip. Subsequent events proved how salutary were these efforts. The captain did all that polite attention and study of my comfort could suggest, attended us to the table, pointed out the workings of the engine, the complications of the machinery and propelling power of the steamer, which so airily and so gracefully "walked the waters," directed attention to every object of note on the route and their charm of historic interest, thus making the trip one replete with instruction. Miss Chase, with the melody of a song-bird, drew around us a circle of charmed listeners, and her voice became a source of constant and soothing solace to me. Arriving at the city of Richmond at the untimely hour of four o'clock in the morning, at the solicitation of the captain we remained on board until a later and more convenient time, when we found the streets of the city alive with soldiers and filled with sad sounds of sword and musketry, the first low reverberation of the din of war, the opening of the battle-song, whose weird refrain has been echoed by so many sorrowing ones, its mad music adapted to the thousands of crushed and broken hearts! The little war-cloud, at first "no larger than a man's hand," was growing deeper and darker, and the stern rumble of the conflict becoming irrepressible. Every avenue in the way of business was closed, and being told that if I desired remaining north of Mason and Dixon's line I must go at once, I retraced my steps, and returned by the James river, since so memorable in the history of our civil conflict, and sought shelter in Baltimore, where I remained for the winter; and while so many relatives and friends would have welcomed me to their homes, I felt impelled to accept an invitation to the institution in which I had been educated, and could enjoy the association of those who had first directed my tottering steps, and my schoolmates, who were friends and co-workers. CHAPTER VII. "But if chains are woven shining, Firm as gold and fine as hair, Twisting round the heart, and twining. Binding all that centres there In a knot that, like the olden, May be cut, but ne'er unfolden; Would not something sharp remain In the breaking of the chain?" Spring came with its "ethereal mildness" and budding beauty, and the ties which bound me to the Monumental City must, although with convulsive effort, be broken. Miss Chase was but "a treasure lent," her sweet, loving nature having won the heart of one who made her his life companion; hence it became necessary for me to find another to fill her place. She came in the person of Miss Kate Fowler, a lovely young girl of seventeen years, who possessed great charms of person, mind and soul, as the sequel will show. We traveled together throughout Delaware, New Jersey and Pennsylvania, meeting with greater success than we could have hoped for while the din of war was raging, always making sufficient for our support. At Hollidaysburgh, Penn., I learned of the presence of General Anderson, and resolved that I would offer a tangible evidence of my appreciation of the "Hero of Fort Sumter." Entwining one of my little books with red, white and blue ribbons, I sent it to him with a little note, asking its acceptance from the authoress, a Baltimore lady, in behalf of her native city, then under a cloud, the Massachusetts troops having been stoned by a mob collected from various points, and for which she bore the undeserved odium. These I sent in their tri-colored dress, expecting only a silent reception. But, as I sat at dinner in my hotel, there came a singular and unexpected response in the person of the General himself. He was introduced by the landlord, and was accompanied by his little daughter, holding in her hand my token, as she smilingly approached me in her fairy-like beauty. A delightful chat ensued, and an urgent request upon his part that I should visit Cresson Springs, to which he had resorted with his family in order to recuperate his health, shattered by the protracted and gallant defense of one of our national citadels. With a kind "good bye" he left, and as I passed out of the dining-room door I received an evidence of his great delicacy in a token he would not publicly tender. The landlord handed me a box from him containing a handsome plain gold ring, ever since cherished as a memento; and, although worn by time, there is still legible the name engraved within this shining circlet, even that of General Anderson. After canvassing Altoona I went to Cresson Springs and was no sooner registered than I received a card from the General. Meeting me in the parlor, he gave me a cordial welcome, after which he said: "Now I am going to assist you in your sales." He drew together three of the parlor tables, and, taking one hundred of my books, he placed them thereon, together with specimens of my bead work, which he artistically arranged in the national colors. It needed but a wave of the magician's wand, for such he seemed, to evoke the spirits of generosity and love, and through these all of my volumes vanished, as well as much of the bead work. At General Anderson's request I took my work to the parlor, and amid a group of wondering ones, many of whom were members of his own family, I showed them how the blind could deftly weave these little trinkets, the fashioning of the "bijou" baskets needing no sight to arrange the colors, with celerity and skill. I was also, at his request, seated at his family table, and time will never erase the memory of words which fell from the lips of the warrior, as gently, as lovingly, as if a woman's voice were breathing words of comfort and affection. In after time, when tidings of his death were borne from a foreign land, when the perfumed breath of sunny France received the last sigh of our hero, I dropped many a tear, which truly welled up from the depths of a sorrowing heart. In the winter I made Philadelphia my head-quarters, stopping at the home of Mr. and Mrs. Mack, both of whom were blind when married, and who both possess great musical talent, which they utilized by teaching piano music, thus earning a handsome support and purchasing the home they then occupied, a tasteful, comfortable domicile. It was well for me I selected this spot, for it afterward proved "a City of Refuge." I was soon prostrated with a severe typhoid fever, and was so kindly cared for by this dear family, who, by tender ministration, nursed the little spark of hope, and brought me from death unto life. Their two sweet children and their musical prattle will ever be recalled as illuminated pictures upon the red-lettered page of life's history. Of the tender care of Miss Fowler too much cannot be said. It was to her assiduous attention I was also, in a great degree, indebted for my recovery. During this illness I could also number two other ministering spirits, Dr. Seiss, a Lutheran minister, who constantly visited me, and gave me many a word of comforting support, and Professor Brooks, who was called to my bedside as medical attendant. He had been for many years an eminent allopathic physician, and was then a professor in the Homeopathic College of Philadelphia. He also faithfully and unremittingly ministered to me during the many weeks of fever and prostration. When I was almost well I one day said to him: "Doctor, what do I owe you?" The sweet serenity of his face merged into a benevolent beam, and in the vernacular of the Society of Friends, of which he was a member, he said: "Mary, Rachel and I have been talking it over, and we have concluded that thee will be too delicate to travel this winter, and will need all thy money; so thee does not owe me anything." Choking with grateful emotion, as soon as I could command control I said: "Doctor, I could not expect you to give me such kind attention without remuneration, but since you have so willed it, I can only say I thank you for having saved my life." Whereupon there came the same luminous look, and the gentle voice said: "Mary, it was not I that saved thy life; it was thy Heavenly Father." As soon as I was well enough to ride he made arrangements for me to visit his house. I took the street car, but by pre-arranged plan, he met me at his door, lifted me from the car, and carried me in his arms into a luxurious bed-chamber, where I was met by the sweet-voiced Rachel, who gave me a reviving draught of rare old wine, and in every way studied my wants during the day's visit, after which the Doctor drove me home in his carriage. How do our hearts go out in gratitude to such true and loving natures, and how fondly do we recall in after years the sweet sounds of sympathy, whose melody pervades life's measured music. Once again I found myself in Baltimore, where I received a letter from my brother William, urging me to spend the winter at his home in Pecatonica, Ill. This, together with a meeting with my cousin Sammy Heald, determined me to go West. My cousin was about to visit Iowa City, Iowa, where dwelt his betrothed, and he offered to pay all my traveling expenses if I would accompany him. The temptation of seeing one from whom there had been an eight years separation made my cousin's entreaties irresistible, and I yielded, receiving from him all the devoted attendance his kind nature could dictate. So, after the lapse of so many eventful years, I turned my face westward. I spent the winter at the home of my brother, and shall never forget his kindness and that of his family, as well as other residents of Pecatonica, who did so much to lighten the leaden-winged hours, which, in a little hamlet, drag so slowly in comparison with the din and bustle of city life, and the excitement of business and travel. CHAPTER VIII. "So where'er I turn my eyes, Back upon the days gone by, Saddening thoughts of friends come o'er me; Friends who closed their course before me, Yet what links us friend to friend, But that soul with soul can blend. Love-like were those hours of yore, Let us walk in soul once more." The dreary winter had passed away, one in sad contrast with the mild southern season, and known only to those who have realized its storms and wind and snow. The birds of spring were caroling their first songs of the season, and the white mantle of snow disappearing under the sun-rays. These tokens told me I must be "up and doing." Selecting a companion among the kind group of Pecatonica friends, Miss Sarah Rogers, a lady of sterling virtue and pronounced character, I went to Chicago. The war conflict being still at its height, I could do little in the way of book selling, but managed to dispose of sufficient bead work to be entirely self-sustaining. In my business route in Chicago I entered a millinery establishment, and was surprised by a greeting from the familiar voice of my sister Jennie, and they alone who are members of a scattered household can realize what must be such a meeting. In the lapse of years since our separation, our paths had so diverged that we had lost trace of each other. I sat down and eagerly listened to a recital of an experience fraught with varied incident. They had moved from Chicago to Monroe city, Missouri, a place which (as most will remember) received the baptism of fire, being utterly destroyed by the Northern troops. My sister not only lost her home, but was separated from her family for several days. As soon as they were gathered together, and had gained sufficient strength to travel, they returned without a resource to Chicago, there to begin life anew, my sister lending a helping hand by opening this business. Her daughter Cora, whom I had left a little girl, was then a graceful young lady, has since married and is living in the city. My brothers, Charles and Howard, both entered the ranks of the army, returned with health impaired from service, and afterward yielded up their lives. My father had settled with his new family at Farmington, Ill., and thither my brother Howard repaired when utterly broken down in health. No mother could have more tenderly and steadfastly ministered to him, than did my father's wife; she, her two bachelor brothers and a maiden sister attending him, in the lingering, languishing hours of suffering, and gently smoothing his "pathway to the grave." I must not fail to mention among Chicago friends the name of Mrs. Dean, which has been written in letters of light upon a hallowed life page, standing out in bold relief upon the background of years. Her house was my home, and she was ever a fond mother to me. Her lovely little daughter, Ada, has since matured to womanhood, assumed the relations and duties of a wife, and is now presiding over an elegant home in one of the flourishing towns of Iowa. CHAPTER IX. "And when the stream Which overflowed the soul was passed away, A consciousness remained that it had left. Deposited upon the silent shore Of memory, images and previous thoughts, That shall not die and cannot be destroyed." For three years longer lowered the lurking war-cloud, and I, among so many others, felt its baneful shadow. During this time I made Chicago my headquarters, taking occasional trips upon the various railroad routes converging there. Finally I ventured upon a trip to Louisville, Ky., and, while it was my first introduction to that place, so cordially was I received by its citizens, so much was done to place me at ease, that I could but feel that I was revisiting a familiar spot and receiving the greetings of old-time friends; and, in spite of the heavy war pressure, it was financially the most successful visit I ever made, having sold five hundred volumes in the short space of two weeks, a fact in itself sufficient to exemplify the pervading spirit of its society, not one of whose members gave grudgingly, but with unhesitating and cheerful alacrity. Thence I repaired to the "Blue Grass Country," the garden spot of Kentucky, and to the city of Lexington, the reputation of whose beautiful women has reached from sea to sea and from pole to pole, and the name of whose hero, Henry Clay, has made the heart of our nation throb with exultant pride. I was also a stranger there, yet I resolutely repaired to the Broadway, its principal hotel, trusting to the hospitality of its citizens. Nor did I "count without a host," for Mr. Lindsey, the proprietor, received me with courtly cordiality, installing us in an elegant suite of rooms upon the parlor floor, assigning us a servant in constant attendance, and urging us to feel at home. At breakfast the succeeding morning he greeted us with the pleasant tidings that he had already sold sixteen volumes of my book, after which he came to our apartment with a huge market basket, which he insisted upon filling with books, adding that _I_ was too delicate to go out with them myself. This was a second time filled and emptied, and before dinner there was placed in my hands the proceeds of the sale of one hundred books. My companion, amazed at his success, begged of him to let her know the secret, whereupon he said, laughingly: "Well, you see, I am a Democrat and a Free Mason. I talked politics to one, gave the society sign to another, and mixed a little religion with all. So I could not fail to succeed." I could but feel, however, in spite of his jest, that his innate goodness was the Midas like touch, and that he bore in his own heart the "philosopher's stone," transforming all into gold. It did not become necessary for me to appear in the streets of Lexington, yet I reaped a rich harvest of gain, and, above all, found a mine of wealth in the warm, true, loving, chivalric souls. Nor did the kindness cease at the fountain-head, for the little ones of Mr. Lindsey's family, laden with bead work, walked the streets of the city, trafficking for my benefit, returning with little hands empty of trinkets, but filled with money. To crown all this kindness I was only allowed, upon leaving, to pay half the usual price for board, receiving letters of introduction to the Capital House, of Frankfort, whose proprietor extended the same liberality of terms, and whose citizens kindly and freely patronized me. Going to Paris, I received so many favors that I never think of Kentucky and its noble sons and daughters without a thrill of loving gratitude. Mr. Lindsey requested me to write to him upon my return, and, after the lapse of a long time, I did so, receiving a reply bearing the painful tidings that, by security debts, he had been bereft of all his earthly possessions, but was hopeful of regaining all. Surely such noble souls should not be left in the cloud while so many sordid, selfish natures sail upon a sea of success. CHAPTER X. "Hope like the glimmering taper's light, Adorns and cheers the way; And still as darker grows the night, Emits a cheerful ray." Upon our return from Kentucky we were received by motherly Mrs Dean, with her ever warm welcome; but after the usual greeting a mischievous smile was seen lurking on her face, and she archly told us that she had a very attractive addition to her family, in the persons of two bachelor boarders. This served but as a pastime of the moment, and I gave it little further thought, until I was presented to Mr. Arms, a gentleman of medium height, head of noble mould and fine poise, dark hair and luxuriant beard, large brown eyes expressive and scintillating, quiet, unobtrusive manner and somewhat low voice. Methinks that I can trace a meaning smile upon the faces of some of my readers at the detailed description of one they deem too blind to see. Not so, there is a strange mysterious masonry in human souls, and while "Few are the hearts, whence one same touch, Bids the sweet fountain flow," an indescribable consciousness of mutual interest came with this meeting; and while I little dreamed that this stranger would in after time stand by my side in the _nearest_ and _dearest_ relation of life, even that of a husband; his face, his form, his voice, his soul were all to me an open volume, which by that inner sight, I read in every minute detail, and then and there were all these photographed upon my heart. Before I had taken my next leave of Chicago I had passed through all the phases of doubt, in which I deeply questioned my own heart, seeking there the solution of why I had inspired an interest in this stranger. Ever since my sickness in Philadelphia I had been a comparative invalid, devoting much of my time to the restoration of health, and above all the recovery of that sight which was still so dear to me, and so hard to relinquish without a struggle. So with my depleted strength, moderate means and somewhat darkened hopes, I seemed to myself a very unattractive object. Be this as it may, while no formal engagement bound us, we parted as acknowledged lovers. Miss Rogers entered into business for herself, and I went unattended to Ypsilanti, Michigan, to be under the charge of a physician, who was to test the effect of electrical treatment as a means of restoration to sight. While he was deeply imbued with interest in my case, and gave me every care and attention while I remained under his roof, he was unfortunately wedded to one whose cold, unsympathetic suspicious nature made a pandemonium for all within the circle of her baleful influence. Of such unions Watts has truly said: Logs of green wood that quench the coals, Are married just like sordid souls; With osiers for a bend. To her I am indebted for many a dark and tearful hour, when not only my heart, but my eyes, needed perfect repose. But beside this thorn-tree in the home garden bloomed for me, and for all, a beautiful flower, in the person of her niece, Josie McMath, who, with her loving, gentle touch, toned down the inequalities and smiled away the frowns. She and I became fast friends, and afterward freely exchanged confidences, telling to each other a mutual tale of girlish hope and trustful affection. During my stay in Ypsilanti I received a letter from Rachel Weaver, who had been bereft of her mother and had lost every means of support. She earnestly desired to return to me; and as the letter brought with it the magnetism of a former attachment, I wrote to her to come to me. Finding the prospect of recovery through my present treatment hopeless, I went to Ionia, Michigan, repairing to the house of Dr. Baird, where I awaited tidings of Rachel Weaver, and whom I met at Detroit, when we returned to Chicago, where I was met by Mr. Arms, and who, soon as an opportunity offered, rehearsed to me the workings of his own mind during my absence. He told me he had been seriously thinking over the matter, and after carefully reviewing his own feelings he could arrive at but one conclusion, viz, that I had become necessary to his happiness, and that he hoped for a mutual plan for speedy union. He owned a farm in Iowa, which he proposed to sell, and invest the proceeds in a home in Chicago. He also begged a promise that I would never make another attempt to recover my sight, which gave me an assurance that my blindness was no barrier to his love. With a strange flutter of emotion my heart responded to his sweet assurances, and, as a weary child confidingly rests upon its mother's breast, so did my tired soul trustingly repose in the safe haven of his manly love, and cast its anchor there! safe amid the lowering clouds of life, serene amid its surging seas and wildest waves; for arching all was the Iris of bright-hued hope. CHAPTER XI. "Visions come and go; Shapes of resplendent beauty round me throng; From angels' lips I seem to hear the flow Of soft and holy song." "'Tis nothing now-- When heaven is opening on my sightless eyes, When airs from paradise refresh my brow, That earth in darkness lies." Leaving Chicago I traveled via Michigan Southern Railroad to the little town of Jonesville, Michigan, the home of my childhood and the scene of so many fond and sad recollections. Stopping at the village hotel for some preparation, I wended my way to the little cemetery. There was a picture in memory of a green hill-side slope, which, whenever the dark funeral day was recalled, formed a vivid and prominent feature of the scene; and so, upon that day, I found within the little "city of the silent" the identical hill-side, but, with the most scrutinizing search, failed to find the sacred mound holding the most hallowed form of the home group, and over which were shed the bitter tears of childhood's grief, more poignant and more lasting than we usually attribute to that period of life. In the hope of eliciting some information I entered a cottage near by, which I found inhabited by aged people; but as they had been residents only seven years, and twenty-four years had elapsed since my mother was laid to rest, they could give me no light or aid, save the simple suggestion that there were a number of graves covered by the undergrowth of shrubbery, and perchance hers might be one of them. Accepting the possibility I found the one I sought, which could not fail to be recognized, for strange to say, time had dealt so gently that the slender picket fence was undecayed by his "effacing; lingers," and the name painted upon the little wooden head-board was distinctly visible. Grouped in quadrangular growth were four little trees, gracefully arching in a bowery drapery over the grave, as if nature in strange sympathy with the mourners left behind had offered this tribute to the noble mother. How vividly came back again the long lost childhood home, and as the wind sighed through the leafy boughs, seemed to sob a sad requiem for the dead. There was a little song I had learned in the Institution, and had so often sang, when unknown to those around me every chord in my sad heart seemed "As harp-strings broken asunder, By music they throbbed to express." Then the sweet, sad words come back in memory, "I hear the soft winds sighing, Through every bush and tree; Where my dear mother's lying, Away from love and me. Tears from mine eyes are weeping, And sorrow shades my brow; Long time has she been sleeping-- I have no mother now." After a long, lingering look, I turned sadly away, going to the little marble yard in the vicinity, and seeking the proper person, I communicated to him the desire for a head and foot-stone for the grave, together with marble corner stones to support an iron chain for an enclosure, asking him for an estimate of the cost. Looking at me with almost tearful emotion, he said, when the blind girl, after the lapse of twenty-four years, comes back to offer a tribute to the memory of her mother, the result of her own unaided earnings, I can but be generous, and offered to do all for half the usual price. Knowing instinctively that I could trust him, I left all in his hands, and have never had occasion to feel that I had misplaced my confidence. Before leaving the village I visited a clothing store which had formerly been the tin shop in which my father worked; and again I was a child, my little form perched upon the wooden work-bench, and my ears soothed by the melody of my father's song, for ever as he sat at his daily labor he lent it the charm of his sweet voice. Strange to say, there was no one there who knew the "blind girl." All my mother's friends had vanished, and "they were all gone, the dear familiar faces." I fondly bade adieu to Jonesville with the consciousness of having performed a sad duty, and proceeded with my avocation, with my wonted success, until we reached Toledo, Ohio, where Miss Weaver was attacked with a serious illness which kept me in constant attendance upon her for several weeks. Her physician assuring me that she would be unable to resume her duties for some time longer, we decided it best for all to send her East. Procuring her a ticket, and placing her under kind protection, I sent her to her friends in New York. I supplied her place with a lady I found in my boarding house, and who I regret to record was in strange contrast with my former companions. Going to Pittsburg we stopped at the Merchants' Hotel, near the depot, where, after a singularly short time, she was visited by a gentleman whom she represented to be a cousin, and while their whispered conversation in my room (a place where I deemed it expedient for them to meet) aroused some suspicion in my mind, I hushed all thought of wrong and hoped for the best. She further stated that she had an uncle in Alleghany city, and thither she went to spend the Sunday, leaving me in the hotel unattended; and from subsequent revelations I must fain believe the time was devoted to the so-called cousin. Upon her return on Monday she suddenly declared her intention of leaving me, adding that she cared not what became of me. I calmly awaited a lull in the excitement of this announcement, and told her kindly that if she would remain with, me another week I would take her to her mother in Ohio, and leave her in her hands, but she haughtily and peremptorily declined, and so left me alone, and, as she supposed, uncared for. But I was so confident of protection that I felt not even a rankling pang at the cruel injustice she had done me, but quietly waited until assured she was gone, when I left my room, groped my way through the unfamiliar hall and knocked at the first door I found, which fortunately proved to be that of a lady named Harris. In as few words as possible I told her the story of my desertion, and had sympathy and congratulation from all in the house at my escape from one who had seemed to them so coarse and unsympathetic. The clerk of the hotel, being a brother of Mr. Loughery, my old time teacher, it was thought best to appeal to him. He met me with an unmistakable expression of sorrow on his face, and as soon as he could command language to do so, communicated the tidings of the sudden demise of his brother in Greensburg, Pa., he having fallen dead in the street. As he was about leaving, assistance from that source became impossible; yet, overwhelmed as he was with this crushing sorrow, he urged me to accompany him to the funeral, an invitation I could not accept, for a renewal of the sad memories of my instructor and friend would have been _more_ than I could bear, so I bade him adieu, and committed myself to the tender mercy of Mrs. Harris, who kindly accompanied me to the post office and depot, and started me safely toward Chicago, a letter being received which I knew to be from Mr. Arms, from whom I had been awaiting tidings for three, anxious, weary weeks. With a consciousness of some impending cloud, yet unable to read the dear pen tracery, I never before so deeply felt the blight of blindness, for the contents were too sacred for the desecration of stranger's sight. So all through that weary journey, softened as it was by the unremitting kindness of all the railroad officials and attendants, I carried a crushing weight of anxiety and suspense, until I reached Chicago, and dear Mrs. Dean, who at once revealed to my waiting heart the contents of the letter. Mr. Arms was in Indiana, and very ill at the time of writing (three weeks previous) and earnestly desired my presence. The weary hours of night dragged their slow lengths away, and the morning found me speeding on as fast as steam could carry me, toward Indiana, yet all _too slow_ for my fears and forebodings. I found him scarcely able to be carried to the post of duty, where, at the mill being built under his superintendence, he watched the progress of the work. 'Tis needless to say how joyous was my welcome and how soon the invalid gave signs of convalescence, under the influence of my long hoped for presence. CHAPTER XII. "We strive to read, as we may best, This city, like an ancient palimpsest, To bring to light upon the blotted page The mournful record of an earlier age, That, pale and half-effaced, lies hidden away Beneath the fresher writings of to-day." After spending a fortnight with the invalid, in which "the golden hours on angel's wings" sped on and away, bringing a returning glow of health to his cheeks, strength to his steps and hope to his heart, so with renewed resolution I started upon my mission, first going to Pecatonica to visit my brother William and family, and to complete my plans for travel. Soon after my arrival I was introduced by my sister-in-law to Miss Hattie Hudson, and by that inward sympathy which unites all kindred natures into one, and the strange recognition of soul with soul, we were at once friends. She was indeed "A perfect woman, nobly planned, To warn, to comfort, and command." One who, aside from her physical attractions, possessed all the charms of inner grace and beauty, idealizing and spiritualizing her nature. We at once also agreed that she should remain with me, and with such rare companionship I started East. Stopped at the beautiful city of Cleveland, so rural and yet so metropolitan in its characteristics, where, following fast upon the din of business and the rush of trade, steals the sweet murmur of waters, the "wave of woods" and flow of fountains, the shaded park and perfumed pasture. Here, aside from the cheer of business success, my heart was gladdened by a meeting with my old friend, Mrs. Bigelow, and little Willie, the whilom blind boy I had met in New York city, and toward whom I had been drawn by that "touch of nature" which "makes the whole world kin." He was now an elegant, educated gentleman, who, among his many accomplishments, numbered that of music, a science he had so thoroughly mastered, and with the "concord of sweet sounds" he helped us all to while away many an otherwise weary hour. I visited the various places of note upon the New York Central Railway, thoroughly and successfully canvassing all, and reaching New York city, was received by my uncle Henry Deems with such a welcome as only a noble, soulful man can extend. After a short, sweet respite from care, we turned toward New England, the truly classic ground of America, every foot of whose "sacred soil" has been trod by pilgrim feet and hallowed by their hearts' devotion. Went to Plymouth, Massachusetts, and spent almost an entire day at Pilgrim Hall in researches and study of its musty and time-worn relics. It was against the rules to open the cases containing these treasures of the past to spectators, all of whom were forced to look at them through doors of glass, even as the bereft ones are ofttimes allowed to look at loved lineaments only through the lid of a closed casket; but the gentleman in charge made mine an exceptional case, and, to use his own language, as my sight lay in the sense of feeling, I should certainly touch these relics. All the interest of varied historical association was imparted to me, and my fingers allowed to rest upon everything. I closed this day, so rich in research, with gratitude to him for his thoughtful kindness. There was in process of erection a monument upon Plymouth Hock, and I stood upon that granite shrine, where first knelt the Pilgrim Fathers, and pictured in my mind's eye the landing of the Mayflower and the grouping of her freight of human souls, majestically towering above them all the stalwart form of Miles Standish, with his "muscles and sinews of iron," and close by the lithe, clinging, delicate form of "That beautiful rose of love That bloomed for him by the wayside, And was the first to die Of all who came in the Mayflower." These and all their attendants passed through my fancy as they knelt upon Plymouth Rock, and with the surging sea for a symphony, sent up their first song of praise and deliverance, and in that hour of reverie there was to me, indeed, "A rapture by the lonely shore; A society where none intrudes. By the deep sea--and music in its roar." Then again I moved away in almost rapt entrancement, and soon stood in the old cemetery beside the moss-grown memorial stones which had stood amid the flight of over two centuries, and emotions deep and strange struggled in my breast, sealed by that _golden, sacred_ silence which sanctifies the unutterable. Prominent among other objects there, was the resting-place of the Judsons, to whose memory a suitable tomb had been erected. Going to Boston I spent three delightful weeks at the home of Mr. and Mrs. Little, a dear old couple who had been married long enough to have celebrated their "Golden Wedding." The old gentleman was wont to say, that these fifty years were all links in the "honey-moon," but that he had not as yet reached the end of the first "honey-moon." So these two old lovers, like "John Anderson my Joe," and his devoted companion, had climbed the hill and were standing "thegither at its foot" in happy contentment, looking toward the golden sunset and catching the gleam of the light beyond. I of course visited "Boston Common," "Bunker Hill Monument," "Old South Church," the museums and galleries of painting, rare collections of statuary, and even heard the "Great Organ." These localities are all fraught with interest, but too familiar to tourists to require description or comment; but I cannot leave the readers of this chapter without a tribute of praise to the high attainments of this "Athens of America," and a word of gratitude for their kindness. I found not the cold, phlegmatic nature which had been depicted as that of the Yankee, nor did I see the tight purse-grip so often attributed to them, for I have nowhere met warmer hearts and more generous patronage than there, and indeed all New England was pervaded by an equal spirit of liberality and kindness. Lowell and the other manufacturing towns I visited were to me objects of wonderful interest, the music of whose looms and shuttles, belts and wheels, engines and flame, will ever come in vivid variety amid the many voiced memories of life and its mystic music. CHAPTER XIII. "There is an old belief that in the embers Of all things, their primordial form exists; And cunning Alchemists could recreate The rose, with all its members, From its own ashes--but without the bloom, Without the least perfume. Ah me! what wonder-working, occult science Can from the ashes of our hearts Once more the rose of youth restore? What craft of alchemy can bid defiance To time, and change; and for a single hour, Renew this phantom flower?" Taking New Hampshire in my route, I was pained to find the season too far advanced to admit a trip to White Mountains, and among the great objects of interest I must of necessity omit this "Noblest Roman of them all," and pass silently by the grandeur of this rugged mountain scenery. I went to Waterbury, Vermont, the birth-place of Mr. Arms, and, after a short rest at the hotel, walked through the meadow, and crossed the clear trout-stream he had so often pictured to me as most prominent among the reminiscences of his boyhood. Going to the homestead now hallowed to me as his birth-place, I was kindly received by the widow of his brother, who needed only the knowledge of my acquaintance with her friends in the West to place me upon a familiar footing, and I became an earnest, attentive listener to her well rendered rehearsal of the pranks of his urchin-hood. So was this day marked as memorable in the calendar of life. From Waterbury I went to Burlington, and thence to Montpelier, and finding the Legislature in session the sale of my books was greatly enhanced by the liberal patronage of its members; and here as elsewhere I had reason to to thank our national convocations. The rigor of the approaching New England winter warned me of the necessity for going South. While on the Hudson River Railroad I was accosted by a gentleman who asked me if I could read the raised letters, and learning that I could, he begged me to accept a copy of the Bible in that style of lettering; I of course did so, and have this volume still in my possession. Going to Chicago I found Mr. Arms established in business, which gave me an additional hope for future happiness, and 'tis needless to say, "I built myself a castle So _stately_, _grand_ and fair; I built myself a castle, A castle in the air." Delicate lungs and irritating cough, sent me still further South, and I reluctantly left Chicago and all I held so dear. CHAPTER XIV. "There is a special Providence In the fall of a sparrow." "There is a Divinity that shapes our ends, Rough-hew them as we will." I have never had occasion so especially to note the over-ruling majesty of a supreme power as in my next journey, the circumstances of which I am about to relate. I went via Indianapolis, Ind., and Louisville, Ky., to Memphis, Tenn. The latter place rivals its sister cities in generous patronage, for, although the whole southern country was so thoroughly devastated, I met with success throughout its length and breadth. I was luxuriously entertained at the Southern Hotel of Memphis and, as I had been over most of the railroad routes, I felt anxious to go to New Orleans by water, and for that purpose sought the general agent of the river line of steamers, anticipating the same liberality which had characterized the railroads in granting passes. I was most haughtily received by this official, rudely addressed, and decidedly and irrevocably denied a pass. Nothing daunted, I walked to the levee, where lay the steamer Platte Valley, almost ready to leave, and besought Hattie, who was ever my counselor, to pay our passage, and, in spite of repulse, enjoy the river scenery. In her judgment it seemed better not to do so, but to use our railroad passes, as usual. I cheerfully accepted her decision. The Platte Valley started on her trip with brilliant prospects for a safe and successful passage, but seven miles below Memphis she sank in the deep waters of the Mississippi. Many of her passengers, especially the female portion, were taking supper in the lower cabin, and, having no means of escape, perished. Hence I had reason to be thankful to Hattie's decision, to the agent's rude rebuff, and to that over ruling power which ofttimes, in our blindness, we fail to discern. At Chattanooga I, of course, visited the National Cemetery, where lie the ashes of so many fallen heroes. Ascended Lookout Mountain to the scene of the "Battle in the Clouds," and I could almost evoke the presence of General Joe Hooker, with his once grand proportions and noble mien, so deservedly famed as The Hero of Lookout Mountain. I afterward ascended another hill, which, although a pigmy in comparison with the Leviathan Lookout, would, in the monotony of our prairie country, be ranked as a mountain. It was upon its top were constructed the government water works, and upon which my brother William was employed for two years, occupying as a residence during that time a little cabin on the height, which was plainly perceptible from the window of my hotel quarters, but which I desired to visit in person, a source of real pleasure, perhaps enhanced by the obstacles I had to surmount in the ascent. At Vicksburg, Miss., I was followed by the same tidal wave of success, in spite of the sad stringency of the times and the cruel effects of war. While there a gentleman took us in his carriage to the earthworks constructed by the soldiers as a fortification, taking great pains to explain all to me, and allowed me to use the usual sense of feeling, which so often served in lieu of sight. At Jackson, Miss., I was a guest of the same hotel in which lived General Beauregard, who was Superintendent of the Jackson and New Orleans Railway, and who, aside from other acts of kindness and civility, freely tendered me a pass over his road. My stay at the "Crescent City" was not only marked by great business success, but the three weeks of sight-seeing was a "continued feast." Although it was now the middle of January, flowery spring "seemed lingering in the lap of winter." The perfume of the violet, the scent of the rose, the gladness of the sun-beam and the brightness of the skies will ever linger in memory, while the geniality and goodness of its people will, in the "dimness of distance," glimmer like a soft love-light in the life of the blind girl. I visited the French market, and drank a cup of the famed and fragrant Mocha; went to its cemeteries, which, in their flowery beauty, robbed death of its terrors; took a drive upon the shell road to Lake Pontchartrain; walked in Jackson Square; and, indeed, visited all localities of note in and around the city. Should my curious readers wish to know how I could enjoy and describe all these, the answer will be found in my companion and friend, Hattie, who, with her wonderful adaptation and ingenuity, added to her remarkable descriptive powers, vividly pictured all to me, and, through an unwritten, indescribable language known only to ourselves, it became a system of mental telegraphy and soul language. There is in Europe a blind man, whose name I cannot recall, who is led from Court to Court and from palace to palace by a frail young girl, and between these there exists the same mystic yet unerring language. What this little fairy is to him such was Hattie Hudson to me, or, to use the language of another: "She was my sight; The ocean to the river of my thoughts, Which terminated all." CHAPTER XV. "Devotion wafts the mind above, But Heaven itself descends in love; A feeling from the Godhead caught. To wean from earth each sordid thought; A ray of him who formed the whole, A glory circling round the soul." Leaving New Orleans with the fervid fire which the warm hearts of its people had kindled still burning in my breast, and the many memories of its fragrance and sunlight, and beauty, forever embalmed and enshrined in my heart, I crossed in one of the great gulf steamers to Mobile, the home of the celebrated Madame Le Verte; but, as her continued travels call her so often away from the city in which she so gracefully and so heartfully dispensed the hospitalities of home-life, and opened wide her doors to the stranger, I was not privileged to meet her; nor can I note many of the manifold celebrities of the city. I can only say I found it as beautiful as a dream; its skies of sweet Italian softness; its waters clear and pure as "Pyerian Springs;" its winds gentle as the whisper of an Angel; its flowers gorgeous in tint and redolent with fragrance; the spirits of its people attuned to harmony with their beautiful surroundings, and overflowing with generous sentiment. Without the slightest intimation upon my own part, I was presented with passes over the Mobile and Ohio Railway, by which I went to Cairo, and thence by the magnet, which so often drew my spirit toward the pole to Chicago. After a brief respite and rest I went to Minnesota, in whose life-giving climate I spent the summer. Passing over the oft-told tale of financial success, I must address myself to those who-- "Love the haunts of nature, Love the sunshine of the meadow, Love the shadow of the forest, Love the wind among the branches And the rushing of great rivers Through their palisades and pine trees; And the thunder of the mountains, Whose innumerable echoes Flap like eagles in their eyries." To these I must revert to the many beauteous haunts and hidden retreats of nature, whose varied phases of quiet sweetness and sublime grandeur are heightened and intensified by the charm of legend and of song. I visited the falls of "Minne-ha-ha," and could almost fancy the silvery song and light laughter of the Indian girl in the happy purling music of the waterfall, and, as it glided off into the gentler murmur of the stream, below, I could imagine the still sadder song of the spirit speeding to rest in "The Islands of the Blessed, To the Land of the Hereafter." Minneapolis and St. Paul were visited, but they are all too celebrated to need note. Back again to the "Garden City," and to the one who had so patiently waited for the sunshine of success and the consummation of our plans for the future; but, as "the best made plans of mice and men aft gang aglee," we found ourselves no nearer the goal. One day he said to me: "Mary, we have waited to be richer, but have still grown poorer; so is it not best that, in defiance of our apparently adverse fate, we unite our interests and our lives?" So hand in hand we resolved to share the joys and sorrows of life, each catching the burden of the old refrain-- "Thy smile could make a summer Where darkness else would be." We repaired to the house of Dr. O.H. Tiffany, and, in the presence of a few friends, were quietly married, after which we made an unostentatious wedding trip to Wisconsin to visit some of his family friends. With them all the "wonder grew" why it was that, among the many smiles hitherto lavished upon him from beautiful eyes, he should have chosen the blind girl. His reiterated assertion of faith in the purity and unselfishness of the life, and the inner light of the soul, found in them a ready acceptance of his choice, and they warmly extended to her all the confidence and affection of kindred hearts. CHAPTER XVI. "To know, to esteem, to love, and then to _part_, Makes up life's tale to many a feeling heart." A short time after our marriage Mr. Arms was offered a contract to superintend the construction of a mill at Woodbine, Iowa, which it seemed best for him to accept; and finding there were no comfortable accommodations for a lady in that place, he left me in a boarding house in Chicago, with Hattie for a companion. It was indeed hard for us to part so soon, and the pang was rendered more bitter by the fact of his impaired health, for he had never entirely recovered from the effects of the malarial fever contracted in a miasmatic district in Indiana. After his departure time hung so heavily upon my hands, my present aimless, carefree life being in such striking contrast to the activity and excitement of travel, that I secretly resolved, as separation was inevitable, to resume my old life, and thus be of assistance to my husband. Unknown to him I wrote to my publishers for a fresh supply of books, and started for Michigan, the State which held within its boundaries the first scenes of sorrow my young life had known, when, amid helpless and hopeless hours of persecution, my girlhood seemed rayless and forsaken, but when kind friends had come in the hour of need, and helpful hands had lifted me from the dark depths. From there I wrote to Mr. Arms, communicating to him my intention to travel. He sent me a touching reply, saying he had never intended me to battle with the outside world again, but, if I deemed it best, it was perhaps well. I had cherished a desire to visit the place in which I lived with the family of Ruthven, for then I could look above and beyond the clouds of early days, and discern the many golden gleams and rosy rays, the many halcyon hours of happiness and hope. So, after the spirit has passed through the purifying fires of persecution, it can calmly look back with a triumphant soul song. But these old scenes were in places so remote and inaccessible that I was forced to forego the pleasure of visiting them; but in many other places I found the old familiar landmarks gone, and the transformations of time had placed in their stead forms and faces new and strange. CHAPTER XVII. "A generous friendship no cold medium knows, Burns with one love, with one resentment glows." After remaining in Michigan until late in the winter, we crossed over to Canada via the Grand Trunk Railway. Our first stopping place was at Saint Mary's, where at the depot we found a nice sleigh awaiting us with, all the necessary appurtenances for comfort, in the way of robes and blankets. Deposited at the hotel in safety, we handed the driver seventy-five cents and were astonished at having fifty cents returned. Supposing there was some mistake, we demurred, when he said, "My charge is two York shillings or twenty-five cents United States money." Surely we thought the spirit of Yankee greed has not yet penetrated the Provinces, when two women, three trunks, satchels, &c., can be comfortably transported for so small a sum. At the hotel we were at once ushered into a warm and comfortable suite of rooms, a pleasant contrast to the usual season of weary waiting for a room. Indeed during our entire stay in the town there was not one omission of attention to our comfort. At Port Hope we were guests of Mr. and Mrs. Mackey, of the Mackey House, and received from them such kindness as we could scarce expect from old friends. Just here let me say that I had heard so many sneering allusions to the character of the "Canucks," that I was quite unprepared for the universal polish, elegance, cordiality and kindness of the Canadians. We went from Port Hope to Toronto, the home of the celebrated Canadian Oculist, Doctor Roseborough, whose fame had been heralded in every portion of the Provinces I had visited. My past experience had so disgusted me with eye surgeons that for one week I had daily passed his house, instinctively avoiding an entrance. One day, however, I quite as instinctively sought an interview with the Doctor, impelled by some strange impulse I could not well define. I was familiarly but courteously greeted with these words, "You have been in the city an entire week, and yet have not called to see me." In reply I frankly confessed that I avoided upon principle the members of his branch of the surgical profession. His subtle magnetism would soon have dispelled all feeling of repulsion; and before I was conscious of the degree of confidence he inspired, I found myself almost persuaded to accept his cordial invitation to tea. The only barrier I could interpose was want of acquaintance with his wife, and that obstacle was soon removed. We found her a most intelligent and charming person, and her mother, Mrs. Reeves, who was present, a dignified, stately English lady of "the old regime." In a few moments after our meeting all her reserve vanished, and she impulsively and almost tearfully drew near. She told in trembling tones of a blind sister who had passed away some time before, and while she had come in contact with so many who had resorted to her son-in-law for treatment, she had never before met one who resembled her sister, while in me she seemed to have found her counterpart. This became at once a bond between us, and throwing off all her usual reserve, she insisted upon having us leave the hotel and spend the remainder of the time of our stay with her. So pronounced was her character and so peremptory her demand, there was no room for refusal, and when in a succeeding conversation with her son I expressed some compunction at our stay, I was at once silenced by the remark that his mother was a woman of marked idiosyncracies, and when she so distinguished an individual as to make them a guest the decision was final, and I must not wound her by an expression of possible impropriety. It is needless to say I left this family with deep regret, carrying letters from Doctor Roseborough; and in my visits to the various places en route to Montreal I found these credentials of great service. On arriving at Montreal we were handsomely domiciled at St. Lawrence Hall. Our room was large and airy, and our bed stood in one of those quaint old alcoves so peculiar to the English bed-chamber; while the table d'hote, with its savory roast beef, plumb pudding, etc., was equally characteristic of British comfort. This was during the blustering month of March, and all who have visited that city at the season in which it becomes necessary to cut away the ice from the streets will remember the pitfalls and realize how difficult it would be for the blind, even with the kindest and most careful attendance, to avoid danger. I escaped without any greater mishap than a fall into one of these excavations, attended by a wetting of my feet, as well as a thorough soaking of five books and their consequent loss. I had, however, four weeks of successful canvassing, and during that time the condition of the streets had quite improved. As my payments were made in the current coin of Canada, and I had the advantage of easy access to the States, I exchanged my silver at a premium of thirty-five per cent, and my gold at forty per cent., thus greatly enhancing my profits. In this connection I must acknowledge the kindness of the residents of Montreal, as well as their more than liberal patronage, which I will ever gratefully remember. Returning to Toronto I rejoined my friends, and, after another short season with them, I went to Ottawa, the delightful Capital of Ontario, then Canada West, arriving there about two days after the news of the assassination of D'Arcy McGee, his household being in mourning, and the whole community convulsed and sobbing in responsive sorrow. This martyred man seemed to have had a singular premonition of death, which came foreshadowed in a dream. He was visiting some intimate lady friends, and after dinner threw himself upon a lounge for a short siesta, when, suddenly springing up from a disturbed slumber, he exclaimed: "I believe I am going to be murdered!" Whereupon he related his dream. He said he thought himself in a little boat, floating upon a stream, and accompanied by two men, who, in spite of his convulsive efforts to near the shore, persistently allowed him to float down the stream to the falls below, over which his boat was madly hurled, when, by his imaginary fall, he was awakened with a strange and premonitory dread in his heart. His devoted wife survived him but a short time, and was found dead at her bedside in the attitude of prayer, where, as her spirit was wafted away upon the wings of devotion, her face was left placid and smiling in its last sleep. "So united were they in life, And in death were not divided." CHAPTER XVIII. "Howe'er it be, it seems to me 'Tis only noble to be good, Since hearts are more than coronets, And simple faith than Norman blood." The various localities in Ottawa being so familiar to so many readers and tourists, I will not dwell upon them at length, but suffice it to say I visited the various Government Departments, and could not fail to be deeply impressed by the truly elegant manners and courtly bearing of the officials. In one of these Departments I found an elderly gentleman, slightly afflicted with deafness. According to the etiquette of their business regulations I was received in standing attitude, and in the few moments' interview were condensed the thoughts and feelings of years. He bought my book, for which he paid two dollars and a half in gold, and, as he bade me good-bye, he stooped and kissed my forehead with the stately grace of a cavalier of the Crusades, which act of emotional deference was heightened by the hot tears which fell from his eyes and dropped upon my cheeks, and the fervor of his repeated--"God bless you, my child." At Hamilton we called at the Mute and Blind Asylums, which were then combined in one, where we were received with great kindness, every possible attention being lavished upon us to heighten our interest and render our visit enjoyable. Going to Buffalo we had a social, cozy visit with an aunt of Hattie's, after which we proceeded to Niagara Falls. It is no wonder that, as a nation, we are proud of Niagara, which, in grandeur and sublimity, rivals any waterfall of note in the world. Taking a carriage we drove to the Canada side, where are so many localities of historical interest, and where, at certain points, are found the finest views of the falls. I remained in the carriage while Hattie went under the dashing, roaring, maddening sheet of water, which feat, as well as the usual one of a trip in the Maid of the Mist, seems necessary, in its apparent peril, to a full appreciation of the awful and stupendous grandeur of this phenomenon of nature. I walked over Suspension Bridge in order to realize its construction through the sense of feeling, and our driver seemed much amused at my manner of seeing. Dismissing our carriage, we walked over Goat Island, in order to better take in the diversified beauty. The old man at the bridge, in consideration of my affliction, refused to accept the usual fee; so hard-hearted as they seem, in their spirit of gain, they have still some vulnerable point, some avenue left open to the heart, thus confirming the humanitarian sentiment, that no nature is utterly depraved. Entering into conversation with the old bridge-tender, I was amused and surprised at his fund of anecdote and wealth of wit. Among other playful jests he declared he could define the exact condition of heart in each individual who crossed over, as accurately as we note the mercury in the barometer for atmospheric probabilities, even going so far as to say that he could guess the "Yes" or "No," and consequently the engagement or non-engagement of each returning couple. We followed the meandering paths and shaded seclusions, where tree and flower, rock and stream make up the fairy realm, and crowned all by standing in the tower on Table Rock, our hearts awed and reverent and our lips inaudibly whispering "Be still, and know that I am God." Leaving by the Great Western Railway we stopped at London, Canada, where Hattie had friends, and where I found a letter from my husband, who had returned from Woodbine, and being about to establish himself for a time in Milwaukee, where he was to build a mill, he desired me to return at once and accompany him. Without delay we sped on in the lightning train to Chicago, my impatient heart keeping time with the winged flight of the cars. CHAPTER XIX. "And the night shall be filled with music, And the thoughts that infest the day Shall fold their tents like the Arabs, And as quietly steal away." Our hearts beating with high hopes and expectant joys, we once more settled down to happiness in Milwaukee. A joyful trio were we, my husband, Hattie and myself. Our location in the Lake House, then one of the most popular little hotels in the city, augured well for a pleasant sojourn. Mrs. Towle, the proprietress, was one who had deeply drank of the cup of sorrow, the first draught coming from the hand of one who had vowed her his love and protection, and who, after twenty-five years of wedded life, deserted her. When, with apparent penitence, he returned to her, he was received to her forgiving heart, and then came the draining of the bitter dregs in a second desertion. With her two children as her only dower, she patiently took up the burden of life, and bravely bore all, supporting and educating her two daughters, and never losing dignity or caste. No more delightful summer resort could be found than Milwaukee, familiarly known as the "Cream City," from the light straw or creamy tint of the brick, which forms so large a part in the architecture of that city, and gives an air of charming cleanliness to the buildings. This shade is said by chemists to be the result of the want of the usual element of iron in the clay of which it is made, and so curious is it to strangers that it has become a familiar saying that few people leave Milwaukee without carrying away "a brick in their hats," this being doubtless in part a jesting allusion to the apparently all-pervading spirit of the gay Gambrinus apparent there and the numberless manufactories of the foaming lager. Yet methinks this is no longer a more striking characteristic there than elsewhere, in spite of the predominant German element. The word "Milwaukee" signifies rich land, and the truthful significance of the appellation is amply testified by the rare flowers, green gardens, fertile fields and towering forests in and around it, all of which are the outgrowth of its soil of rich alluvial loam. Milwaukee is a city whose animus is in striking contrast to the daring, dashing spirit of Chicago, but its substantial wealth, cash basis, and slow, careful, steady progress, have led it on to sure success, so well attested by the quiet and substantial elegance of its business buildings, the palatial proportions and exquisite finish of its private dwellings, with their appropriate appointments of cultivated conservatories, gorgeous gardens and rare works of art. The well stored libraries evince an advanced degree of cultivation, and the literary coteries a prevailing element of the dilletante spirit, while the plain, rich habiliments, and the elegant turnouts with liveried attendants, indicate a degree of fashion and style unknown in many larger cities; and their manufactories and business houses suggest great mercantile advancement, their elevators and shipping a high order of commercial greatness. Their harbor is one of the finest in the world, and by travelers is said to resemble that of the beautiful Naples. Indeed, the extended view from the drive upon Prospect Street is without a rival. Beautiful Boulevardes were then in quite advanced process of construction, and in time must rank among the most shaded, flowery walks and drives in the world. Swiftly sped the summer hours in fair Milwaukee, with its gay gladiolas and blue skies, its crystal waters and grand old forests, until it ceased to be a wonder why so many health and pleasure seekers made it a resort, and that it became, during the warm season, a fashionable watering place. One of our most frequent rendezvous was upon the lake shore, where, in a sweet secluded spot, far away from the throng which resorted there, a rough log for a seat, we were wont to sit for hours, listening to the music of the bands upon the excursion boats as they came and went with their scores of pleasure seekers, and the still more harmonious melody of the waves as they rose and fell at our feet in low, soft, musical murmurs. Among the many attractions of Milwaukee is that of one of the several noble institutions erected by our Government and known as National Soldiers' Homes. It is located four miles west of the city, and is accessible both by Elizabeth Street and Grand Avenue, two of the most delightful drives of Milwaukee. Its eight hundred acres are beautifully enclosed and finely cultivated, being laid out by one of its former chaplains, according to the most artistic rules of landscape gardening; every coil and curve of avenue being a line of beauty, and its fifteen miles of drive startling the eye with its grouping of lake and garden, bridge and stream, fern-clad ravines and sunny heights. Amid its dense groves are fairy pavilions, in which its maimed and scarred veterans discourse sweet music by a silver cornet band, without one grating sound or discordant note. Without the rigid discipline of active array life, these veterans have sufficient military discipline for comfort and order, and one cannot fail to remark the systematic precision which characterizes the performance of their daily duties. I cannot say all I should like to say in regard to these institutions, but suffice it to say that I found many sympathizing and some old friends among the blind, and was glad to learn that these soldiers, as a class, ranked among the most cultivated inmates. I cannot close my chapter upon this subject without alluding to the magnanimous generosity of the Milwaukeeans in their donation of one hundred thousand dollars to the National Home Fund, the proceeds of a Sanitary Fair, in which white hands and deft fingers, faithfully and patriotically wrought, for the benefit of the disabled soldiers, and few cities could boast of a nobler donation. I must also allude to the high appreciation in which the Homes are held by foreign dignitaries. Miss Emily Faithful, the fair amanuensis and confidential friend of Queen Victoria, while visiting America in an official capacity, spent a day in socially visiting and carefully inspecting the Soldiers' Home of Milwaukee. Astonished and entertained she pronounced it the most pleasurable day she had spent in this country. The Grand Duke Alexis left upon its register the only autograph written in person in a public place, bestowing upon the institution the most extravagant encomiums, both himself and his suite of traveled and titled gentlemen pronouncing it a wonder and a marvel! The Reverend Doctor Smythe, of Dublin, Ireland, when in attendance upon the Evangelical Alliance, visited the Soldiers' Home of Dayton, Ohio. Examining its magnificent libraries, seventy thousand dollar chapel and its hospital, the finest in the world, he was spell-bound. Going to its music hall and listening to its band, inhaling the perfume of its conservatories, visiting its grottoes, bowers and springs, rowing on its lakes, seeing its aviaries with birds of all varieties of plumage and song, and driving in its parks inhabited by buffalo, elk, antelope and over five hundred deer; he exclaimed with evident fervor, "In the _Old Country_, libraries, conservatories, bands and parks are for the nobility; in the new world they are for the soldiery." And what nobler compliment could he have paid to our country and its institutions? CHAPTER XX. "Farewell! a word that must be, and hath been; A sound that makes us linger; yet farewell." The summer being ended, we visited the friends of Mr. Arms in Wisconsin, after which he went to Grinnell, Iowa, in pursuit of his usual avocation. My own delicate health made it necessary for me to be again winging my way southward. Going to Atlanta, Ga., and making that my headquarters, I visited with marked success all the towns of importance on the various railroad routes diverging from this centre. I then made Macon another headquarters, after which I canvassed the greater part of the State. The forests were filled with flowering shrubs and trailing vines, the towering trees hung with the wild, weird drapery of the southern moss, and the mocking birds sang their sweet songs from "early morn 'til dewy eve." These scenes "vibrate in memory" with quivering, throbbing power, and come back like odors exhaled from fading flowers or "music when soft voices die." Selma, Alabama, became my third headquarters, where I boarded with Mrs. Cooke, a lovely woman of the purely southern type, who, before the great conflict, was a millionaire, and was afterward forced for her own support to convert a large mansion into a huge boarding house, which, with its hundred guests, was a cheerful, happy home; permeated as it was by the sunshine she diffused, and lighted by the fairy face of her lovely daughter, who was named for her native State, Alabama. As in the aboriginal tongue this signifies "here we rest," and it became to us a name deeply fraught with significance, for in this pure untainted heart we found "rest! sweet rest!" "En route" to Rome I met with my usual good fortune in finding another friend in a lady resident of the country, who fondly urged me to leave the hotel and make my home with her, where she lavished upon me every luxury and kindness. Her husband was the only man in that region of country who voted for Abraham Lincoln; and when General Sherman made his "March to the Sea," she concealed none of her stores or treasures, but went to him and asked protection for her property and home, when a guard was immediately furnished her by the commander. She afterward married an officer of this guard, in consequence of which she was disowned by her family and associates, but in the noble and sterling qualities of her husband found ample compensation as well as a subsequent reconciliation with friends. CHAPTER XXI. "'Tis a little thing To give a cup of water; yet its draught Of cool refreshment, drained by fervid lips, May give a shock of pleasure to the frame More exquisite than when nectarian juice Renews the life of joy in happiest hours." In order to reach Montgomery I took passage in one of the high-pressure steamers of the Alabama river, and during the two days and nights of the trip I was surrounded by a throng of sympathizing, interested passengers, whose tender tones and gentle touch was as a cool, refreshing draught to parched lips, a sweet morsel to the tongue, for human hearts ever hunger and thirst for affection. How utterly unendurable would be this life, with its desert wastes and hot siroccos, but for the sweet, verdant spots dotting the sandy sea, whence spring the "fountains of perpetual peace" and issue the healing waters. These loving ones surrounded me as I sat busily occupied with my bead work, and not only delighted and entertained with their curious questions and familiar chat, but freely bought my books and fifty dollars worth of baskets, while they would doubtless have doubled the amount had not this exhausted my little store. As we steamed in sight of Montgomery a gentleman came into the cabin and requested me to make for him eight of the handsomest bead baskets before we landed; and, seeing an amused and incredulous smile upon my face, he said: "You work so dexterously and so rapidly that I did not realize that my demand was unreasonable." Explaining to him that it would require eight hours of the closest application to accomplish that amount of work, he apologized and left me. Nor did this specimen of the "genus homo" evince any unusual ignorance of woman's work, whose endless routine and diversified drudgery ofttimes require the patience of a Job and the wisdom of a Solomon. In the labyrinth of domestic entanglement more is needed than the silken clue of Ariadne, and the vexed question of domestic economy requires the unerring skill of the diplomatist, the subtle tact of the politician, and the sure strength of the statesman. The "Poet of Poets" has shown his appreciation of the character and life of woman in the following lines: From woman's eyes this doctrine I derive; They sparkle still the right Promethean fire; They are the books, the arts, the academies, That show, contain and nourish all the world. After a pleasant and successful visit to Montgomery we went via the Mobile Railroad to Evergreen, a little town fitly named from its deeply shaded evergreen surroundings. We reached this little hamlet at two o'clock in the morning, and those who are familiar with the cold and penetrating dampness of a southern night, even in mid-summer, could realize our condition and desire for rest and warmth, and know something of our disappointment at finding the one poor little hotel of the town without a vacant room. Seeking the office for a resting place, we found the case equally hopeless, for congregated within its narrow limits were men, women and children, every one of whom was stretched in various attitudes upon the floor, as peacefully enfolded in the arms of Morpheus, and, perchance, as sweetly dreaming as if resting upon beds of down and pillowed upon fine linen and gossamer lace. Sleep is indeed to such "tired nature's sweet restorer," and to those whose healthy bodies and unambitious natures know no perturbation it is balmy and refreshing. Turning from the unconscious, slumbering group for one friendly face, we were greeted by Major Lanier, of the Confederate Army, whose manner and tone not only betokened the gentleman, but whose acts of kindness evinced the true and chivalrous heart so characteristic of the southern character. After failing in repeated efforts to find us a room, he gave us his blankets and great coat, and all through the dreary watches of the night fed the fire with wood, which with one hand he chopped, while with the other he fought off the rabid attacks of fierce and barking dogs, which persistently assailed him. Had we been distinguished ladies, or had there been any probability of the gallant major being praised, complimented, or in any way preferred for this act of gallantry, it might have been less appreciated, but it was an act of purely chivalrous courtesy to two strange ladies in humble position, and his only reward was our poor thanks and the approval of his own generous heart. It must have had its comic side, too, to see a major of the regular Confederate service, who had done battle on the field where glory was to be won, groping in the dismal dark of the night and running the risk of being severely hurt, possibly of being killed, by dogs, practicing war with one hand, and dispensing a noble if not an ostentatious charity with the other. We had been promised the room opening into the office as soon as it was vacated, and at the first streak of coming dawn the Major stationed himself near the door, listening for the slightest sound; and when from the carefully guarded chamber the faintest rustle came he would jocularly exclaim: "Ladies, prospects are brightening!" and so he helped us to while away the weary hours until we secured the promised room and bed, where we rested until noon. When we arose from this refreshing rest we found that the session of court had brought this throng, and we were soon surrounded with visitors, who kept us constantly conversing and almost incessantly weaving baskets for their amusement. These people not only bought large stores of my work, but their talk sent crowds of people from far and near, all of whom made purchases of some kind. Such was the interest of every member of the bar and every attendant upon court that the four days I spent there completely exhausted me, physically and mentally. Finding there were no other important towns beyond Evergreen, I returned to Montgomery and repaired to Savannah, Georgia, where I was treated with the most genial generosity, and should have been repaid for a trip to that place in a visit to its cemetery, whose reputation has been spread throughout the length and breadth of our land, and whose strange, sad beauty is so infinitely beyond the conceptions of imagination, but which-- "To be remembered Needs but to be seen." Its grounds are densely grown with trees of live oak, whose huge and spreading branches, seeming to bear the size and strength of a century's growth; with the dark, drooping moss, which, as it mingles its weird, fantastic drapery with the bending, swaying, weeping willow, seems like a pall for the graves hidden in its sombre shades; while the millions of birds which dwell therein lull their warbling notes to the measure of a low funeral song; and every sound of Nature's many-voiced music seems to murmur a requiem for the dead. As I sat subdued and listening, the low, rustling sound of the wind seemed as a sigh of sorrow escaping the breast of the bereaved, and I could picture in the far away land of Palestine that sacred spot which had so often been described to me, even the "Church of the Holy Sepulchre." This most benevolent city of Georgia, without solicitation, presented me passes to Jacksonville and Tallahassee, Fla. The former was at that time quite an unimportant place, but has since become a popular resort. While in Tallahassee I met with great sympathy and kindness from Governor Rood, who bought a book and handed me five dollars. When change was tendered to him he quietly and respectfully declined, and said with his usual delicacy that it was worth that much to him. The Sheriff of the county was also very generous. Wishing to present me with ten dollars, and fearing to wound me by so doing, he ordered that amount of bead-work. Tallahassee was certainly the most quiet Capital City I had ever visited, resting in its placid loveliness apparently undisturbed by the usual wrangle of legislation. We returned via Live Oaks, at which place we encountered one of those severe thunderstorms known only to tropical lands, and in which the angry "war of elements" strikes terror to the hearts of those unschooled to it. All through its thundering and lightning, its wind and torrent, I was in such a state of nervous excitement, that when the last lurid light faded, the last crash was echoed by a low reverberating moan and died away, I gave one deep sigh of intense relief and sank exhausted from the reaction. CHAPTER XXII. "I lay upon the headland heights, and listened To the incessant moaning of the sea In caverns under me, And watched the waves that tossed, And fled, and glistened; Until the rolling meadows of amethyst Melted away in mist." My visit to Charleston combined little of eventful note, and this city is to well known as a seaport to require a detailed description. There, as in all places in close proximity to the ocean, I was spell-bound amid the ceaseless ebb and flow, the endless melody of the waves glowing and scintillating with myriad gem-like hues from the amethyst, the emerald and the diamond, to the many-hued opal, its varied and changing beauty bearing all the brilliant glory of the fabled dolphin, born in its depths. In this sea-girt city I found the home of Mrs. Glover, and above all her hallowed presence there. She is an accomplished lady, and once wrote an attractive novel, more for pastime than from any literary aspirations. Vernon, the hero of her story of Vernon Grove, was blind, and as this depiction of character was so much more true to nature than the pen-pictures of other gifted delineators, even that of the shrewd searcher of the human heart, Wilkie Collins, that she had won the sympathy and interest of all at the Baltimore Institution, at which, in former years, she had been so cheerfully greeted. Vernon possessed none of the melancholy, inanimate, suspicious characteristics supposed by many to belong of necessity to the blind, but was a brilliant, cheerful, high-minded person, who filled every position in life with dignity, accepted every sorrow and disappointment with resignation, in every struggle was a lion-hearted hero, and in every contest a conqueror. This gifted lady was a sister of Mrs. Bowen, of Baltimore, who, as well as her husband, was a warm, true friend to the blind, and ever joyously hailed as a guest in the institution. After traveling through the Carolinas I went to Richmond, Virginia, the Rome of America, and like that ancient city built upon seven hills, while in its patrician pride and family loyalty it possessed much of the essence of the old Roman spirit. My visit there was during the most fervid heat of the summer solstice, when through the sultry days all living creatures are panting and breathless, yet withal the stay of three weeks' duration passed away with delightful rapidity, and time stole upon us and stole from us almost imperceptibly. Leaving Richmond for White Sulphur Springs, I stopped at all important intervening points. At Staunton I devoted an entire day to the inspection of the Institution for the Blind, and in pleasant acceptance of hospitalities dispensed both by inmates and officials. Arriving at White Sulphur after dark, we found the mountain air so cold that we could almost imagine ourselves suddenly transported from the Equator to the Pole, and were as thoroughly chilled as one unacclimated would be from so great and sudden a transition. The mammoth hotel of this watering place, comfortably seated in its dining-hall twelve hundred guests, and all its appointments were in equally grand proportion. We occupied, from choice, one of the cozy little cottages, nestling like a dove-cot in some bowery shade, with its patch of green-sward and flower-garden in front and purling brook behind, holding the double charm of rural simplicity and home-like air. Hattie led me through every path and grove, nook and glen of this sweet seclusion, this valley embosomed in mountains, and my thoughts reverted to the days when the belles and beaux of our American court sought these sylvan shades; when Washington and the successive Chief Magistrates of the Great Republic had gracefully glided through the stately minuet and invested this spot with a now classic interest. Prominent among the visitors was the leonine General Lee, a Colossus in person and in mind. In spirit brave as a true hero, but in manner gentle as a woman. In the sweet solace of sympathy his heart went out to the blind girl, and assumed the tangible form of solid favors, for by his personal efforts under the magic influence and royal mandate of his imperial power many a little volume was appropriated that would have been otherwise unnoticed. George Peabody was also a guest, but in this, his last visit to his native country, he was too ill and prostrate to receive friends. I felt for him a strong personal sympathy for his beneficence to my native city, to which he ever acknowledged himself indebted for his first business success; and in which the pure, white marble structure, with its magnificent library and other appointments, so well known as "The Peabody Institute," stands as a monument of his munificence. Returning to Richmond, we took the James River route to Baltimore, a trip fraught with varied interest. At Yorktown, that city of eld, we landed to take in a cargo of freight, not neglecting the usual store of oysters, of which we had at supper a sumptuous feast and it was from no fickle epicurean fancy that all pronounced these delicious bivalves the finest in the world, for, certainly, never before or since have we partaken of them with such rare relish and absolute gusto. CHAPTER XXIII. "Sweet is the hour that brings us home, Where all will spring to meet us; Where hands are striving as we come, To be the first to greet us. When the world has spent its frowns and wrath, And care been sorely pressing; 'Tis sweet to turn from our roving path, And find a fireside blessing; Ah, joyfully dear is the homeward track, If we are but sure of a welcome back!" Home again in dear old Baltimore, where over my cradle was sung my mother's first lullaby, and where so many localities were invested with the charm of loved association. I of course visited the Institution for the Blind, which would not, in its many changes, have seemed at all like home but for the music of a familiar voice and the presence of dear Miss Bond, who still with loving dignity presided as matron, throned in the majesty of noble humanity, and crowned with purity and goodness. Dr. Fisher, Mr. Trust and Mr. Newcomer still faithfully held their positions as Directors, and cordially welcomed me home. Mr. Morrison, the new Superintendent, and his most estimable wife, although they had never seen me, brought me near to them by the bond of sympathetic kindness, and seemed not like strangers but friends. It seemed singular to those who had known little Mary Day to have her go back to them a married woman, and indeed, for the moment, time seemed to have gone backward in its flight; the dignity of the matron was forgotten, and I was a child again, even little Mary Day. I felt glad of an assurance from Miss Bond, that so fondly had my name been cherished, even by those in the institution who had never met me, that it was regarded as a "household word," and that enshrined in the most sacred niche of the temple of love was the image of Mary L. Day. As a testimony of this continued affection I was fondly urged to remain in the institution while in the city, but, as I had so many resident relatives, I declined. My cousin, William Heald, who had by his kindness infused light into some of my darkest hours, had won a lovely woman for a wife, and certainly no one more richly deserved such a consummation. Cousin Sammy Heald had also married his fair fiance, of the West, who in her sweet purity of character, beauty of person and a life fragrant and blossoming with good deeds, could justly be called a "prairie flower." He had been ordained a Methodist minister, and was winning true laurels in his little charge in Iowa, to which conference he belonged. He had chosen his proper vocation, for as a preacher he was "Native, and to the manor born," for when a wee boy, he had written and declaimed many a sermon, and had his mimic audience been a real one these efforts would have produced electrical effect. Among the many changes in my Baltimore circle was the vacant chair at the fireside, once filled by my uncle Jacob Day, whose memory and whose life was pervaded by the odor of true sanctity. It could truly be said of him at the sunset of a beautiful life, that "Each silver hair, each wrinkle there, Records some good deed done; Some flower cast along the way, Some spark from love's bright sun." He had been a great leader in the Sabbath School movement, and a prominent feature of the funeral cortege was a procession of his pupils in pure white raiment, who, in token of their love and bereavement, strewed his grave with flowers. I cannot close my home chapter without an expression of exultant pride for my classmates who have done so nobly in their various vocations. Two had entered the literary ranks as book-writers, and had met with marked success in the acceptance and sale of their works; three stood high as teachers; one earned a good living by tuning pianos; several were engaged in various departments of the institution; and two ranked high as musicians, which profession has seemed an especial field for the blind. To use the musical measure of poetic prose as rendered by Mr. Artman, one of the most renowned blind authors--"There is a world to which night brings no gloom, no sadness, no impediments; fills no yawning chasm and hides from the traveler no pitfall. It is the world of sound. Silence is its night, the only darkness of which the blind have any knowledge. In it every attribute of Nature has a voice; the beautiful, the grand, the sublime, have each a language, and to me, whose heart is in tune, every sound has a peculiar significance. Sounds fill the soul, while light fills the eye only. 'In the varied strains of warbling melody,' as it winds in its graceful meanderings to the deep recesses of his soul, or of the rich and boundless harmony, as it swells and rolls its pompous tide around him, he finds a solace and a compensation for the absent joys of sight." And so I close with a blessing upon the members of my class, and may the God of light and love illumine their paths, and glorify their lives, is my earnest, heartfelt prayer. CHAPTER XXIV. "The prayer of Ajax was for light; Through all that dark and desperate fight, The blackness of that noonday night, He asked but the return of sight, To see his foeman's face. "Let our unceasing, earnest prayer Be, too, for light--for strength to bear Our portion of the weight of care, That crushes into dumb despair One half the human race." From Baltimore I went to Westminster, Maryland, to visit my cousin, Charles Henniman, and my stay there was characterized by all the joy of sweet reunion and eager acceptance of hospitalities so lavishly bestowed. It was with mingled emotions of pleasure and pain I greeted my old friend, Carrie Fringer. In person she was of a peculiar type of beauty, a face regular in features as a Madonna, beaming with the soft, love-light of rare, sweet eyes, in whose depths were imprisoned not only an intense brightness, but the still deeper glow of a soul of love and truth. Curls of soft brown hair fell upon her symmetrical shoulders and softened the face they framed into an almost spiritual sweetness. From an affliction in her childhood she had almost ever since been unable to walk, and indeed none of the beautiful limbs were available for voluntary motion. Thus deprived of more than half of life's joy, its sweet activity, many would have lapsed into a morbid, nervous condition, over which we might justly have thrown the mantle of charity, but this dear friend was so lovely and chastened in her affliction, that she seemed almost a Deity in her attributes of tender love and patient self-abnegation, united to a heroic endurance of pain with which she was daily, hourly and momently tortured. Surely "The good are better made by ill, As odors crushed are sweeter still." Going to Washington I accompanied an excursion down the Potomac to Mount Vernon, that sacred spot whose mention sends a thrill of patriotic pride through every American heart, hallowed as it is by memories of George Washington. So I became one of the zealous pilgrim throng who wended their way to this our Mecca, dear to us as that sacred place in the old world to the most devout worshiper of the Prophet Mahomet. Reaching our destination we first repaired to the tomb, and with bowed and uncovered heads all reverently gazed upon the mausoleum of departed greatness, and turned to the mansion, each department of which had its own peculiar charm. Prominent among other relics were his war-equipments, the paraphernalia of Revolutionary times; and as we ever associate him with his character as general, these were especially significant from the sword so often wielded with masterly power, to the little canteen, from which, after long and weary marches, he refreshed his parched lips. In his bed-chamber, with its antique air and quaint garniture, there stood a bedstead, the fac-simile of the one upon which he died. Here we lingered long and lovingly, and turned to another department, in one corner of which stood a harpsichord, once belonging to his niece, Miss Lewis. In fancy I could see her fairy fingers as they swept in "waves of grace" over its strings, and with the "concord of sweet sounds" ministered to a circle of distinguished listeners. I could not resist the impulse to pass my hands over the long neglected strings, and recalled the sentiment of the old song, "As a sweet lute that lingers In silence alone; Unswept by light fingers. Scarce murmurs a tone; My own heart resembles, This lute, light and free, 'Til o'er its chord trembles Sweet memories of thee." The garden still remained as arranged by his taste and dictation, and at one corner of the house the magnolia tree, planted by his own hand, still bloomed in fragrant beauty. In the yard was the old well, with "its moss-covered, iron-bound bucket," and at the door the gray-haired negro, the inevitable servant of "Massa Washington," who will doubtless, like a wandering Jew, out live all time, and for centuries to come remain an attaché of our country's father. Several gentlemen present evinced and expressed great surprise that a blind woman should go to _see_ Mount Vernon, yet I very much doubt if any eyes really saw more than my own. When we reached the boat, each gentleman carried in his hand a cane cut from the woods of Mount Vernon, and one and all returned to Washington with the consciousness of having spent a pleasant and profitable day. We soon left for Lynchburg, Virginia, after which we visited the towns en route to Knoxville, Tennessee. At the latter place we had a very enjoyable visit to the home of Parson Brownlow. He was absent in attendance upon the Legislature, but his daughter gracefully and cordially dispensed the hospitalities of their home, and did everything within the bounds of her warm, sympathetic intelligence to heighten the pleasure and interest of our visit. Back again to Chicago, we were welcomed by Mr. Arms, whom we found engaged in erecting machinery in the Gowan Marble Works, the largest of the kind in the North-west. Resting in the sweet haven of home, we passed the winter in this sanctum. CHAPTER XXV. "I love not man the less, but nature more, From these our interviews, in which I steal From all I may be, or have been before, To mingle with the universe, and feel What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal." Renewed and refreshed from our long winter rest, with the migration of the birds we winged our way westward, alighting in many a lovely locality in the flourishing State of Iowa, whose soft undulations of prairies were now swelling in billows of gorgeous green, and touched with the varied tints of flowery bloom. Our last resting place was in Council Bluffs, so celebrated for the grandeur of its location at the foot of the beetling bluffs of the Missouri River, and for its flourishing and progressive spirit, aside from which it holds a place in our historic annals dating back to aboriginal days. When this century was in its early infancy, and the shadowy dawn of our young nation was still wrapt in the mists which enshrouded its first struggling efforts; when the little far-away fur station of Astoria, near the whispering waves of the Pacific coast, held not the mellowing memories of time or the living light with which the genius of an Irving has since invested it; when the great explorers, Lewis and Clarke, were leaving their foot-prints on the land bordering the Columbia River, they held a council with the Red Man at Kanesville, Iowa, ever since known as "Council Bluffs." Thence we went to Omaha, which is one of the most flourishing places in Nebraska, and from the improvised post-office of early days, the "plug" hat of Mr. Jones, its first post-master, has grown the large distributing office of the department. It was also a military post and winter garrison for our troops in transitu, its cheerful barracks, well-kept roads and clean parade ground converting it into a favorite drive and walk, where resort many strangers to witness the dress parade of "The Boys in Blue." The Platte River Valley is well known to most of my readers from its romantic association with the struggles of the vast army of emigrants, who not only braved the dangers of its uncertain fords and deceitful quicksands, but the tomahawk and scalp knife, ofttimes leaving a nameless grave beside its waters; and, were it not for a laughable incident in this connection, I would pass it by unnoticed. There are so many heroes of the Don Quixote school, who are so brave in fighting wind-mills, who, in time of peace, are "soldiers armed with resolution," but in the real conflict what Shakspeare designates as "soldiers and afeard." There was in our train a young prig, who "played the braggart with his tongue," telling of his brave exploits, like a very Othello recounting the "dangers he passed," ending with a defiant show of how he should act in the event of an attack from marauding Indians, to which the trains were at that time so subject, after which he fell into a profound slumber, resting upon his imaginary laurels. While he slept the train had changed conductors, and it became necessary to see his ticket. This new official passing by, and finding himself unable to arouse the snoring sleeper by ordinary means, gave him a lusty shake, whereupon our hero gave a hideous yell of "Indians! Indians!" his lips quivering and his frame palsied with fear. The sound was so startling that the affrighted passengers imagined themselves for the moment in the merciless grasp of a band of Red Men. The conductor gave this quaking coward another energetic shake and an imperious demand for "your ticket, sir!" and the quondam man of war "smoothed his wrinkled front," and humbly subsided into a semblance of sleep, while the conductor was no doubt astonished at the loud laughter that followed a brief silence, during which the passengers recovered their composure, and realized the full ludicrousness of the incident. In my experience in life I have met a great many people who were ready to tell what they would have done "had they been there;" but this priggish gascon was the first I had ever seen put to the test, and I believe him to be a fair sample of that smart class who could, if you take their words for it, have done better on any given occasion than those whom the occasion found "there." Emerging from the Platte Valley, we realized the fact that we were fairly on our way to the far West, ready to take in with insatiable avidity all the immensity and grandeur of our territorial scenery. Arriving at Cheyenne, we were surprised to find a comfortable hotel-omnibus in waiting, and most of the concomitants of a metropolis, notwithstanding the oft-expressed surprise and fear of friends at the daring venture of two unprotected women in going alone to this lawless and God-forsaken country. Alas for the demoralizing influence of so-called civilization! While in the elegant counting-rooms of polished millionaires in more eastern localities we had occasionally met with insults and snubs; in this place of reputed "roughs" we received not one rebuff, and were greeted not merely with respect, but with unbounded generosity. While we found rough diamonds, they were diamonds nevertheless. Over this city has since swept the tidal wave of reform, and a great temperance awakening evoked by one of the great workers in that movement, Mr. Page, who, with gentle yet royal mandate, has said to the many "troubled waters," with their sad wrecks of human souls--"peace! be still!" We find it vain to depict by our feeble word-painting the many-hued, many-voiced phases nature assumes in this almost boundless domain, and the yet untold, undeveloped depths of our territorial resources. Mountains looming up in imperial grandeur, their snow-crowned summits melting into cloud and sky; weird cañons, in which the whispered words of worship from a myriad devotees seem to echo and re-echo through their dark depths; giant trees: "The murmuring pines and hemlock, Bearded with moss and in garments of green, Indistinct in the twilight, Stand like Druids of Eld, With voices sad and prophetic." Among the many military posts Fort Bridger, named for the famous trapper and guide of oft-written and oft-told fame, is also renowned as one of the posts of our gallant frontier officer, Albert Sydney Johnston, who won his first laurels amid the first Mormon troubles, and gallantly fell at Shiloh early in the Civil War. Many of the most romantic places have been named for some fair maiden of the pioneer families, as Maggie's Creek, Susan's Valley, etc., while one of the most noted and poetic spots is known as "The Maiden's Grave," the once rude resting place of a gentle girl, whose remains were left there by her mourning friends on their way to their home on the Pacific Slope. It was afterwards found by a party of graders on the railway, and these rough but sympathetic men erected a fitting mausoleum of solid masonry, surmounted by a pure white cross of stone, whose symmetrical proportions are prominently visible to every traveler upon the Union Pacific Railroad. One of the most interesting objects to me was the "Thousand Mile Tree," whose towering height I could imagine and long to behold as described to me by my companion and friend, its strange isolation sending a peculiar thrill of loneliness through the heart of one who was fifteen hundred miles from home. This old tree, through some strange freak of nature, stood a solitary sentinel, a guide-post of nature to tell the traveler he was a thousand miles from Omaha. As we neared Weber River our well known and popular conductor came into the cars, and in a voice of deep, rich melody, sang the words of the then favorite song: "Yes, we will gather at the river. The beautiful, the beautiful river; Gather with the Saints at the river, That flows by the throne of God." The passengers, as we neared the kingdom of the Saints, catching the magnetism of his song, joined in the sweet refrain until it swelled into a soaring, reverberating harmony. We reached Ogden City just as the sun was setting in royal hues, and repaired at once to the White House, the only gentile hotel in the place. CHAPTER XXVI. "Westward the star of Empire takes its way; The four first acts already past, A fifth shall close the drama with the day; Time's noblest offspring-is the last." Our first emotion upon our introduction to Utah was one of fear and foreboding, for our landlord seemed so assured that we should meet with no success, selfishness being the established character of the Mormons, who never allowed their hearts to go out in sympathy to any one outside of their own church or community. Far away from home, "a stranger in a strange land," felt like those old-time wanderers who sat them down by the "waters of Babylon," and hanging their harps upon the willow, sang sad songs and wept bitter tears. I gathered sufficient courage to call upon the editor of the daily paper, and his gentlemanly reception was very reassuring. He gave me a lengthy and commendatory notice, and this emanating from a man with five wives gave me a more charitable sentiment than I had formerly maintained toward Mormon institutions, and it likewise gave me courage and a better opinion as to my prospects. We remained there two days, and met with such unexpected success that we turned in a more hopeful mood toward Salt Lake City. On the road to that city is a celebrated sulphur spring, whose presence is indicated for miles before it is reached by somewhat infernal fumes. A woman in the car, overcome by the unpleasant odor, exclaimed, in evident disgust: "Is that the way the Mormons smell?" She seemed so impressed with the nearness of his Satanic Majesty, whom she intimately associated with Mormondom, that it recalled the somewhat vulgar story of the "Teuton," who, in nearing the Virginia White Sulphur Springs, with the same fumes in his nostrils, cried out: "Mein Gott! pe shure, hell is not more as a mile off!" Arriving at Salt Lake City at the close of a beautiful day, the western sky gleaming with the royally gorgeous hues of a clear, bright sunset, while the delightful surroundings and stimulating atmosphere lured us to walk from the depot. Salt Lake being at that time a city of twenty thousand souls, and this being prior to the opening of the mines, it was probably in the hey-day of its beauty, and could boast of but one saloon, whereas they are now very numerous. Its broad, regular avenues were shaded with trees of such immense growth as are known only in our western lands, the coolness and shade of whose leafy, spreading branches invitingly appeal to the passer-by. Streams of limpid, crystal water, born in the pure mountain snows, gurgle down each street, and, in their beautiful borders of nature's green enamel, impart an almost marvelous beauty to the city. The twenty-third of July being the twenty-third anniversary of the founding of the "City of the Saints," I had the pleasure of going to their Temple and listening to the earnest oratory of their representative men, and among them the "Prophet" himself. George Francis Train being also a visitor in the city, gave a characteristic oration, in which he rehearsed the pilgrimage of this people, their persecution, privations and pains before reaching their haven, which seems, in its rare beauty, an almost magical city, rising up in the wilderness as a lovely refuge, for, after all, what magic is so potent as industry and perseverance, and how much of both of these elements must have been brought to bear in the accomplishment of so much in the short space of twenty-three years. The Honorable George Cocannon, the able editor of their daily paper, representative in Congress, and one of their distinguished elders, gave me a telling editorial, which, from its influential source, benefited me very greatly, and could not fail to facilitate my sales. We called at the residence of Brigham Young, and he kindly gave us a half hour of his valuable time, a favor much appreciated, and one which threw great additional light upon their institutions. We visited their public schools, found the system of graded departments, high schools, etc., very similar to our own, and all in an equally flourishing condition. My companion was peculiarly attracted by the uncommon beauty of the pupils, never having seen in an equal number of children so much personal fascination. I also visited the public market, where a man in one of the stalls bought a book, remarking at the same time that he supposed he ought to buy four, as he had that number of wives. A bystander asked if this did not sound very strangely in the ears of one so unaccustomed to a plurality of wives. I quickly responded that the men of Utah must have large hearts to be capable of taking in four wives, or even more, when our men had scarce courage to marry one. My reply evidently touched some responsive chord, for all at once bought books. Their system of co-operative trade ofttimes leaves them destitute of ready cash, but all who had money gave me the most liberal patronage. There is a peculiar feature of Salt Lake society which is truly worthy of note, and that is the fact that even in social gatherings they open and close with prayer. Thus, with the highest respect and gratitude for its citizens, I left Salt Lake and returned to Ogden, where I hoped for a new supply of books. Finding neither letters nor books, and board being four dollars per day, I began to feel symptoms of the "blues." Going to the landlord and stating the case, he bade me have no fear, for no more would be demanded of me than I was able to pay; and cheered by this unexpected kindness, I resolved to patiently wait the issue of events. The next day being election, it was strange to witness the procession of women voters wending their way to the polls; but here, as in Salt Lake, the utmost order and quiet prevailed, nor was bolt or bar necessary for protection at night, when we were permitted to rest in sweet security from harm. On going to the express office we were approached by a gentleman, who, pointing to me, handed Hattie an envelope with the simple words, "If you please;" few indeed, but fraught with mystery to us, our only solution being that the envelope contained election tickets, and we were supposed voters. With a sense of relief we found the books at the express office, and we took that opportunity to open the mysterious package, in which we found five dollars. Describing the gentleman to the express agent, he said he was a clerk in an eating house near by, a bachelor, and very liberal. Certainly this act spoke nobly for the fraternity of bachelors, who are supposed to go about armed with a coat of mail, especially invulnerable in the region of the heart, while this unsolicited kindness unquestionably indicated a large degree of tenderness of nature. We sent him a note of acknowledgment, which we felt to be but a feeble expression of our gratitude, and, as "all seemed to work together for our good," we left Utah with a benediction in our hearts and a silent but no less earnest prayer on our lips, and turned toward the setting sun. CHAPTER XXVII. "The quality of mercy is not strained; It droppeth as the gentle rain from Heaven Upon the place beneath; it is twice blessed, It blesseth him that gives and him that takes: 'Tis mightiest in the mightiest, it becomes The throned monarch better than his crown." Leaving Ogden we followed the line of the Central Pacific Railroad, making no stops until we reached Elko, Nevada. It was the county seat of Elko county, and, although at that time a place of comparatively small size and population, it had an air of business activity known only to localities alive with the excitement of railroad traffic. The mammoth depot and freight-house gave it an air of importance; the pine trade, then so active, and the busy stage-line to the neighboring, warm, mineral springs and mines of purest silver, imparted to it an additional business activity. We were delightfully entertained by Mr. Treet, the gentlemanly proprietor of the Railroad House, and were presented by him with a letter of introduction to Mrs. Van Every, of Sacramento. Thus did so many kind hands smooth down the inequalities incident to a life of travel, and pleasantly pave the way to so many warm friendships. On arriving at Sacramento on August 5th, a day of intense, almost stifling heat, we went at once to Mrs. Van Every, who kept the most elegant boarding house in the city, whose spacious apartments seemed filled with the breath of Paradise, which added a grateful welcome to our travel-tired bodies. Mrs. Van Every's mien of pure and native dignity, her voice of silvery sweetness, gave the charm of a welcome and ease to her greeting; and without delay we presented our letter, which was the "open sesame" to her heart. We were at once assigned to a nice, clean and even luxurious apartment, and after some real rest and quiet we sauntered out, as usual seeking the most prominent editors, and found two, both of whom did us full justice in the way of editorial notices of our presence and mission. One day, almost at the close of a two weeks' canvassing tour, we entered the office of the Honorable N. Green Curtis, who, at the first glance, declined to give us his patronage, but after a short conversation, in which he learned that I was a native of Baltimore, "A moment o'er his face The tablet of unutterable thought was traced, And then, it faded as it came," he instantly arose, and, as if impelled by some new and life-giving impulse, he took from my hand a book, and left in its stead a five dollar bill, saying in hurried words, I never refused to assist a Southerner. Thus the memories of our native land are balmy with recollections of childhood, and cling to us through a lifetime of sorrow and change. The humblest Scottish shepherd boy can never forget that "'Twas yonder on the Grampian hills His father fed his flock." Judge Curtis afterward revealed the fact that he was a native of South Carolina, and the mere mention of the sunny land of his boyhood gave to each latent sympathy new life and power. It was also probable that he was not at first aware of my affliction, for he added the remark that he could not refuse a favor to a blind person. When we were leaving his office he arose and inquired if I needed aid in any other way; stated that he was a widower and without other ties, hence had no claims upon his purse, and hoped I would feel as free to ask as he was to give. I replied that I was doing too well in my legitimate business to require direct pecuniary aid, and unless he could assist me in securing railroad passes I had no requests to make. How kindly he did this was manifest from the fact that I afterward received from Ex-Governor Stanford, who was President of the Central Pacific Road, a yearly pass, and with this introduction the favor was readily extended by all the railroads on the coast. A few evenings before I left Sacramento Mrs. Van Every, from her ever overflowing goodness, improvised an entertainment for my pleasure and benefit. It became necessary to initiate Hattie into the secret, but I remained in blissful ignorance until one evening I received a not unusual summons to go down to the drawing rooms, when I found myself the centre of a charmed circle of the elite of Sacramento, the easy flow of whose conversation was laden with love and sympathy for me, and then was revealed the fact that each invited guest had received a card, upon which Mrs. Van Every had traced the words "for the benefit of the blind lady." "Music with its golden tongue was there," and the halls resounded with melody, which, with love's sacred inspiration, is sweet as Apollo's lute. Among the gathered guests was Mr. Charles Cummings and lady, Mr. Cummings being one of the officers of the Central Pacific Railroad, of whom I shall speak hereafter. A most sumptuous supper was served, each choice viand being the result of Mrs. Van Every's culinary lore, which the most epicurean taste could not but relish. The light-winged hours brought all unconsciously the time for parting, and the beauty and chivalry of Sacramento, left laden with books and baskets which had been spirited from my own room and tastefully disposed in the parlors; and each good night was blended with a kind wish and gentle benediction. Mrs. Van Every, and her sister, Mrs. Fulger, who lived with her, were ladies of the noblest representative type of the Society of Friends, of which my life already held such blessed memories. In general society, with deferential etiquette, they adopted the usual form of speech, but in the privacy of the home circle they used the "plain language" of their own organization, hence it became to me doubly musical in its sacred character. Before starting again upon our travels, we made Sacramento our home, to which we could turn for rest in our wanderings. CHAPTER XXVIII. "And this our life--exempt from public haunt, Finds tongues in trees, books in running brooks, Sermons in stones, and good in everything." We next visited San Jose, one of the most romantically, beautiful towns in California, which would require the subtle gift of genius, a touch of poetic fire, and, above all, the fullness and richness of descriptive power, to enable me to give any adequate conception of its charms. It was almost a fairy realm, with its fields of waving grain, then golden with the glow of the harvest season; trees laden with fruitage, and vineyards drooping with their ripe, purple clusters. One of the prominent attractions of the place was the residence of General Negley, nestling in the centre of extended grounds, combining the richly, blending beauties of nature and art. Groves and streams, rustic bridges and flowing fountains, shrubby labyrinths and flowery dells, were grouped in happiest harmony. Received by the General with the genial hospitality which should characterize the presiding spirit of such an Eden, dispensing itself in so many pleasant ways, we were led from house to garden, and from vineyard to wine press, where all were temptingly lured to taste the freshly pressed grape juice. It was a novel sight to those accustomed only to white or negro labor, to see the efficient corps of Chinese employees who had proven themselves such valuable servants. It is with some degree of trepidation that I follow a desire which impels me to describe a bunch of grapes I saw in this vineyard. I must beg my readers to free me from any taint of the spirit of the renowned Baron Munchausen, whose intensely magnifying vision threw its impress upon all objects, but, without the faintest degree of exaggeration, I can say, that while I am no Lilliputian in size, I stood, holding with great difficulty, the weight of a single bunch of grapes in my extended hand, while the other end of it rested upon the ground, nor would I dare to tell this grape story unless many of my readers were familiar with the mammoth fruits of California. After this delightful visit we took the horse car to Santa Clara, and certainly the world cannot boast of a public route so redolent with beauty as this. Both sides of the road are shaded with trees of almost a century's growth; for this "Alameda" was planted by the Jesuit Fathers in 1799. These left the vines and olives of their native Spain, and planted upon the soil of their new home this grove, which was, doubtless, intended as a sacred haunt, never dreaming that its sanctity would be invaded by the sacrilegious sounds of modern civilization, and, above all, by the rumble of the horse car. All along this beauteous line of shade, musical with the melody of birds, are elegant villas, evidently the abodes of wealth and fashion. Back again to Sacramento, we met Mr. Charles Cummings, who gave us a general pass over the various stage routes of that portion of the State, and we at once went to Stockton by rail, where we took the stage for the celebrated Calevaros trees. So stupendous appeared every tree upon the route, that a score of times we fancied ourselves nearing the world famed giants, but how did these monsters dwindle into comparative insignificance when we found the real grove. After this tedious, tiresome stage ride, it was indeed a luxury to find ourselves safely ensconced in the large, elegant hotel in the midst of the Calevaros, the season being quite advanced, and in consequence the hotel less crowded. This being one of the few places in the State in which we found cool water, we luxuriated in draught after draught of this crystal, ice-cold beverage, and no fabled fountain of rejuvenating power could have been more exhilarating. Next morning, in eager anxiety, we took an early look at the great trees, all of which are named for some person of distinction. We stood first beside General Grant, and, as Hattie laid her hand upon the side of the hero, she bade me start around him and see what a distance it would be to find her again. When I was upon the opposite side I felt quite isolated and lonely, and when I regained her companionship it seemed to have been after a long separation. We next took a reverent look at the "Mother of the Forest," which is eighty-seven feet in circumference and four hundred feet in height, and we must confess that these proportions made her look quite like an Amazon. The "Father of the Forest" was quite prostrate, his huge bulk, as he lay upon the ground, seeming that of a fallen hero. Thus in the vegetable as in the animal world, the female has the greater power of endurance. Man, in spite of his conceded superiority of physical strength and supposed mental supremacy, bows before the tornado of life, while woman ofttimes stands erect and fearless amid the storms and winds of years. The heart of the Father had been bored out, and the hollow converted into a drive, admitting a horse and rider for eighty-seven feet, and allowing them room to turn and go back. I had the pleasure of taking this novel ride, allowing my horse to be led. Many of my readers have seen, and most of them have heard of the novel dancing-hall in the heart of one of these denizens of the forest, which admits four quadrilles upon its floors, and can imagine the romance of "tripping the light fantastic toe" amid such surroundings. Another tree had been sawed into tablets, upon which each visitor left a name or record. The day previous to our visit, a little boy of eight years old had visited the grove. When his bright eyes rested for a time upon the tablet, his little fingers grasped a piece of chalk, and he readily wrote: "And God said, let there be a Big Tree, and there was a Big Tree." We looked admiringly upon the "Twin Trees" named for Ingomar and Parthenia, and perhaps like these lovers of old, embodied "two hearts that beat as one." During our three days visit we left no tree unexamined, each one being fraught with individuality, and each in living language addressing our hearts in its own characteristic sentiment. These veterans varied in age from twelve hundred to twenty-five thousand years, and for their accumulated cycles commanded veneration. After fully satisfying our love of sight seeing, and taking time to fully contemplate the beauty and sublimity of the wonders, we returned by way of Sonora and Columbia to our temporary home in Sacramento, not only satisfied but highly gratified by our tour. CHAPTER XXIX. "Dared I but say a prophecy, As sang the holy men of old, Of rock-built cities yet to be Along these shining shores of gold, Crowding athirst into the sea; What wondrous marvels might be told! Enough to know that empire here Shall burn her loftiest, brightest star; Here art and eloquence shall reign As o'er the wolf-reared realm of old; Here learned and famous from afar, To pay their noble court, shall come, And shall not seek or see in vain, But look on all with wonder dumb." Once more away from Sacramento we visited Marysville, which is a beautiful brick town, laid out with great regularity and width of street, each house nestling in flower-garden and shade, and is a place of extensive manufactures and trade. We went from there to Colusa, where I reaped a rich harvest of gain. Indeed I never found a people more lavish in the expenditure of money, seeming to value it only for the good it dispensed. Leaving Colusa, elated with the success we had met, we journeyed to Marysville in a very happy state of mind that was doomed to undergo a severe reverse on our arrival. When we started there were three hundred dollars in "hard money" in my trunk, and when we arrived in Marysville my heart sank within me and I could feel the blood leave the surface and my face grow deadly cold when I learned that my trunk, which we had seen stowed in the "boot" of the stage on starting, was not there on our arrival. After a few moments, in which I considered what should be done, I went to the stage agent, who telegraphed back to Colusa, and, after an hour of deep and painful suspense, the answer came back that the trunk was safe. By some singular omission the straps of the boot had not all been buckled and my trunk had fallen out. It was picked up by some honest farmer, who, believing that it belonged to a passenger in the stage, had sent it to the office. The next morning it came to me, and I was amply compensated for the delay in the kindness of the agent, who not only expressed great regret for the mishap, but voluntarily defrayed all extra expense incurred. We next visited Chico, at that time the terminus of the Central Pacific Railway, where I hoped to meet Elder Hobart, the friend I had so loved in my childhood. After some search I found his daughter, from whom I was pained to learn that he had closed his earthly pilgrimage but a short time before. My pain was not for him who rested from such faithful labors, but for those bereft. The daughter, although married, forgot not the friend of early days; and I accepted with alacrity her invitation to visit her house, where we had a season fraught with pleasant reminiscence. We took the stage here for Red Bluff, the rain pouring in torrents and the night dark as Erebus, it being the beginning of the regular rainy season of this country. During the night we reached the Sacramento River, which we could almost have imagined to be the Styx, with the sombre Charon for a ferry-man, for we soon learned that we were obliged to cross upon a flat boat. The wind was blowing in so fierce a gale that the boatmen could not near the shore, and called upon the passengers for assistance. All the gentlemen responded but one passenger, who, although a man, was not gentle, settled himself upon the back seat and declared he would not pay his passage and work it too. All attempts of the ladies to shame him into activity were useless. He could not be induced to leave his snuggery, and even as we talked he was lustily snoring. So do some selfish natures smoothly slip through the emergencies of life, leaving to others the responsibilities and exertion; and this man I was afterwards told was a professional humorist, actually a humorous writer for the press, and I must accept this as one of his jokes. After three weary hours we drifted to the shore, and next day went to Red Bluff, a wild, uncanny place, but abounding in wealth and replete with generous hearts, of whose bounty I was a rich recipient. Thence we went to Shasta, where Mr. Hudson, a cousin of Hattie, had rooms in readiness for us at the American Hotel. The meeting of the cousins, after a separation of nineteen years, was a joyous one, their animated conversation keeping time with the quick, impetuous throbbing of their hearts. The pleasure of our day there was also much enhanced by the sprightly--even brilliant conversation of the hotel proprietress, Mrs. Green, whose three-score years and ten were worn as gracefully as many a maiden's sweet sixteen. As a protracted rain seemed inevitable, and all business possibilities were precluded, we assented to Mr. Hudson's proposition to visit his bachelor quarters in the country, which we found to be one of the most romantic, sylvan shades imaginable, with its little three roomed-cot embowered in vines and running roses, then in full bloom, and after the storm, radiant in color, freighted with perfume and sparkling with liquid gems. Alone he had occupied this secluded spot for nineteen years, and in his isolation-- "Had made him friends of mountains; With the stars and the quick spirits of the Universe, He held his dialogues, And they did teach to him The magic of their mysteries." He was as familiar as a hunter, with every trail in the vicinity, and he took us through every romantic, winding path, one of which led us to an elevation commanding a view of Mount Shasta, the highest peak of the Coast Range. Reluctantly we left this "pleasure dome," which, although less stately than that "in Xanadu of Kubla Kahn," held all the fairy charms of a bright Eutopia; and with the vain regrets which all must feel who leave some fancy realm for the cold regions of reality, we took the stage route for Weaversville, forty miles farther up the mountain heights, whose crests were now white with snow, and the road in many places running within six inches of the ragged chasms, thousands of feet in depth. Our stage was drawn by four horses, and, at one time, the snow accumulated around the foot of one of the leaders until it formed a huge ball, and with this impediment he was partially precipitated over the edge of a precipice. This noble animal exhibited more presence of mind than would have characterized many human beings under similar circumstances, and, with great judgment, gradually extricated the foot from its snowy burden, and resumed his journey, but not before the face of every passenger was blanched with terror. After a few days at Weaversville, we returned to Sacramento, feeling that we had enjoyed a pleasant and profitable trip. CHAPTER XXX. "A man he seems of cheerful yesterdays, And confident to-morrows." We made a trip to San Francisco at a time when life seemed a continued carnival season, for there winter is the most delightful portion of the year. We rented apartments in a delightful New England family, named Collins. This, at that time, was the most comfortable way of living, for in no part of the United States did restaurants furnish such good and liberal fare at such reasonable rates. The characteristic cheerfulness of California became intensified in San Francisco, where every face looked radiant and happy as if all who entered the Golden Gate found a City of the Sun. We had so often asked the reason of this, and were as often told that "it was all owing to the climate." We finally concluded that the climate carried an unusual weight of responsibility; indeed, according to Joaquin Miller, among "the first families of the Sierras," every unusual phenomenon of nature, whether it came in the form of a fascinating widow, a spooney man, a premature birth, or a fish with gold in its stomach, was all owing to "this glorious climate of Californy." Although San Francisco is pervaded by the business activity of a great commercial metropolis, it is not possessed of the spirit of excessive drudgery in the hot pursuit of the "almighty dollar" which prevails in many other places. Every Saturday afternoon there is a lull in the labor routine, business being entirely suspended, and the fashionable promenades, Montgomery and Kearney Streets, are thronged with pleasure seekers; husbands and wives, lovers and sweethearts, happy children, gay colors and brilliant equipages. Among the beautiful resorts is that of the Woodward Gardens, with zoological and floral departments, parks, lakes, dancing halls and skating rink. A friend kindly accompanied us to the Cliff House, a delightful resort upon the beach, about six miles from the city, and too well known to require description. We remained in San Francisco about three months and a half, became every day more fascinated with its charms, and would fain have rested longer under the spell, but duty called us to many places on the coast, among them the floral Oakland, a perfect bijou garden and grove, and, like Alemeda, a beautiful, suburban home for the merchant princes of San Francisco. We visited San Rafael and Santa Cruz, the Newport of California. At the former place there was an incident, which, although of a personal nature, we mention as illustrative of the magnanimous character of the Californian, prone to err, but ever ready to confess a wrong. We entered the office of the County Clerk and offered him a book. Without removing his feet from the counter, upon which they were elevated at an angle of forty-five degrees, he threw down a dollar and bade us "go along." We "stood not upon the order of our going," but went, taking care to leave the dollar. A bystander said to me: "Take it! he is rich!" I quietly assured him that I never accepted money without rendering an honest equivalent, and as I left I heard the ejaculation: "She's plucky, isn't she." On entering a livery stable on the opposite side of the street, a gentleman took the proffered book and opened to a page containing the name of Aunt Nancy Lee. With an exclamation of surprise he said: "I have an aunt of that name." This led to further conversation and a better acquaintance, the person really proving to be his aunt. While we were talking, the four gentlemen from the office of the County Clerk came in, and I being introduced in a new light they each bought a book, and the clerk made an ample apology for his abruptness, which I readily accepted as an "amende honorable." We went to Santa Barbara by steamer and greatly enjoyed the sail. Finding no pier upon our arrival, we had to descend an almost perpendicular ladder to a small boat. In this apparently perilous process, the boatmen were actively assisted by Captain Johnson, whose mellow toned voice softened and cheered the transit. In the descent, a woman dropped her baby into the water, and, although it was quickly rescued by the seamen, her continued screams even after its safe delivery quite intimidated me, but with the usual sure-footedness of the blind, I went down with so much ease that I was greatly complimented by the astonished captain. Our skiff-ride to shore was a pleasant episode, and the romance was much heightened by the floating sea plants around us, which could be easily touched with our hands. There were no good hotels in Santa Barbara, but we were comfortably accommodated in a private family. The climate is finer there than in any locality in the State, the thermometer most of the time standing at seventy degrees, hence it is so greatly sought by consumptives. It was to me a delightful pastime to spend an occasional hour with the fishermen on the coast, who are so happy to impart any information regarding their own calling, and from whom I learned many a valuable lesson. From Santa Barbara we went down the coast to a little railroad landing and took the train bound inland; after leaving the beach the road passes through dense, fragrant orange-groves and rich, fruitful vineyards. A ride of twenty-five miles brought us to Los Angeles, a town with the same beautiful surroundings. It was, at that time, a quaint, old, dilapidated Spanish place, with an air of shabby gentility, but the subsequent tide of immigration and trade has doubtless transformed it. We returned to the coast and took the steamer to San Diego, which, with its arid, sandy waste, has little to recommend it to the visitor, save its truly, palatial hotel, which must have been built in anticipation of the many projected railways diverging from this point. While there, our hearts were rejoiced by a meeting with Dr. Baird and his wife, a pleasure known only to those who, exiled from home, see a "dear familiar face." CHAPTER XXXI. "All that's bright must fade, The brightest, still the fleetest; All that's sweet was made, But to be lost, when sweetest." We returned to Sacramento with minds refreshed and spirits brightened by the delightful scenes through which we had passed during our coast trip. My life seemed to have received new radiance, and all things wore the bright "couleur de rose," when one day there seemed something in Hattie's touching tone which, like the "shadow of coming" events, sent through my heart a strange, premonitory thrill of sadness. She paused as if for prayerful preparation, ere she said: "Mary, I have something _sad_, something _terrible_ to tell you, and I wish to prepare you to bear it with patience, even as I for five months have borne the burden with silent submission." She then carefully, calmly, quietly revealed to me the fact that there was feeding upon her dear life one of those horrible vampires of human disease--a cancer, which was slowly but surely drawing her nearer the close. Suddenly all brightness and beauty died out for me, while cloud and gloom gathered around me, deep, dark and impenetrable; for so had Hattie entwined herself about my heart, that to my darkened days there seemed for me no light, no life without her. Surely-- "Sorrows come not single spies, But in battalions," And while I felt myself overwhelmed by this one deep grief in quick succession came another. One morning while at our breakfast, and without the slightest preparation, tidings was brought to me that Chicago was destroyed by fire. My husband had just completed our new home, a comfortable resting place, with lovely garden and pleasant surroundings, and thither I had hoped ere long to go and rest from my labors. Daily, as the diagrams of the fire reached us, we traced upon them the loved site of our home, as in the burnt district. All telegraphic and mail communication being cut off, we could receive no direct news, and in the intensity and terror of suspense pictured our home desolated, and friends perished in the horrible holocaust. Feeling that a resumption of our life of labor was inevitable, we parted with the dear Sacramento friends, who had so kindly clung to us for fourteen months, with many a sigh and tear, and went to all the towns of importance between that place and Reno, Nevada, at which point we took the stage for Virginia City, and reached it after two weeks of inexpressible agony, during which time food had scarce passed our lips or sleep visited our eyes. On our arrival we were overjoyed to find awaiting us seven letters from home. Oh the eternity that elapsed before the seals could be tremulously broken! and the halcyon sweetness of relief of the happy tidings of friends in safety and health. Although the fire-fiend had swept his destructive wings over the property within a hundred yards of our home, through a sudden shifting of the wind its course had been changed, thus saving us from what would have seemed to me ruin. Gratefully we resumed our business and remained for seven weeks in Virginia City and vicinity, where we had most abundant success, for in spite of rock and ledge, sand and tornado, the country abounds in full purses and warm hearts. At Carson City we found an United States Mint, where a gentleman designated Saturday afternoon, when the machinery was stopped, as a proper time to give us the benefit of a full examination, allowing me to touch everything, and giving a satisfactory explanation of the "modus operandi" of money making. We went to Battle Mountain, where we took the stage for Austin, ninety miles distant. We had nine passengers and twelve hundred weight of bullion in the bottom of the stage, together with innumerable satchels, umbrellas and brown-paper parcels. In this cramped position we traveled from one o'clock in the afternoon until nine o'clock the next morning, an infliction that was only rendered endurable by having a relay of horses every fifteen miles, and being permitted to rest upon terra firma during the changes. At Austin we unexpectedly met in the family of the hotel proprietor friends of Hattie, from Illinois. The kind host proved to me a "Good Samaritan," for finding myself unable to walk he carried me in his arms to the hotel, and safely entrusted me to the ministering care of his kind family. Desiring to cross over the country to Eureka, and the stage not venturing to the eminence upon which stood our hotel, we were obliged to go to the express office to take passage, where we were shocked at the sight of three maudlin men in an advanced stage of inebriety, throwing showers of silver money upon the ground, and ostentatiously allowing the crowd to gather it up; while we were still more shocked to find that they were to be inside passengers, and our only companions. With these three men and their "fade mecum," "the whiskey bottle," we started on our journey that bleak, winter morning. Two of them soon became so beastly drunk that their bottle fell out of the stage door and was lost beyond recovery. Their companion remained for a time sufficiently sober to prevent them from falling upon us in their constant oscillations, but, by the time they had reached the convalescent stage, he became so nauseated that it was necessary to hold his head out of the window for relief, and, finally yielding to the soporific influence of his drams, he laid himself at full length upon our feet. Meantime a most gentlemanly person, of whose presence we were at first ignorant, would occasionally descend from the stage top, look at us compassionately, ask if anything was wanted, and take leave. At one of his calls I asked him if we were not near our dining place, when, much to our discomfort, he informed us of the impossibility of finding anything to eat on the road. We had provided no lunch, and, having partaken of a meagre and untimely breakfast, were fast becoming exhausted. He politely offered to share with us his store of provisions, and at the next stopping place escorted us to the rude log cabin with the air of a Knight Errant, took off our rubbers, placed them before the fire, and after other indescribable and delicate attentions opened his basket and spread before us a lunch of truly, royal viands, which, in spite of our rude surroundings, was eaten with unrivalled relish. Arriving at Eureka, we stopped at the Parker House, in which Mr. Hinckley, the proprietor, made every exertion to secure our comfort. It had rained for a week, and the streets were in such a horrible condition that we were filled with forebodings of failure. Quite unexpectedly we again encountered our cavalier, who insisted upon lifting us over the deep mud of the crossings, placing us entirely at ease by the assurance that it was the custom of the country, after which he offered his assistance in the sale of books, and, going into a faro bank, he sold twelve copies at a dollar and a half apiece. We described this gallant gentleman to Mr. Hinckley, who informed us that he was Pete Fryer, the most noted gambler of the Pacific coast, whose unrivalled success and universal popularity were in a great degree owing to his sobriety, his elegant presence and polished manner. Our next move was to Gold Point, where we spent a day. We met there a Virginia physician with whom we had a long and interesting conversation. We were boarders at the same hotel, and at the tea table he came over to Hattie, and placing in her hand a ten dollar gold piece, said it was for the blind lady, and he wished her to buy with it a keepsake. We went to Palisades in a mud-wagon, the only means of transportation at our disposal, and we found it highly appropriate, the mud being over the hubs of the wheels. In this primitive style we reached our destination upon Christmas Eve, weary and homesick; yet our Christmas dinner in this insignificant town was choice and _recherche_, the quality and variety of the wines being worthy of the cellar of a connoisseur. Our business success here was greater than in many larger towns. We visited the places en route to Ogden, and on our arrival there found snow almost two feet deep, and hundreds anxiously waiting for the arrival of the Union Pacific train, which had not been in for two weeks. The hotels were so intensely crowded that we were forced to wade through snow over our knees for half a day to find a comfortable place to stay, and were very thankful for a third rate boarding house. The next day, when almost in despair, we heard in the distance the welcome sound of a locomotive whistle. The gentlemen rushed to the depot and soon bore us the pleasant tidings that the train would leave in two hours and a half. We hurriedly gathered together our baggage and sufficient supplies for a week, arriving at the train just in time to secure a section in the sleeping-car. Hoping for no more delay, we started, but ere long found ourselves landed in a snow bank, with five trains ahead of us, in the same predicament. A three-days stand-still of this kind, with its trying tedium, can be imagined only by those who have been similarly situated, and its tedium is equaled by nothing but an Ohio River sand bar imprisonment on a stern wheel steamer. My sensibilities had quite a reawakening jog from an incidental abrasure, received by coming in contact with one of the acute angles in the person of Miss Susan B. Anthony, who honored us with her distinguished presence. She was in company with the family of the Honorable Mr. Sargent, United States Senator from California. This gentleman evinced great native delicacy in his quiet, unobtrusive attentions. Miss Susan had been very impatient at the long delay, and constantly berated the male sex and their inadequacy to great emergencies, and was offered by the complimented parties the privilege of engineering the train, an honor she respectfully declined. One day I was saluted by a voice, not sweetly feminine in tone, while an impetuous hand pitched, at me one of my own books. The voice asked: "Were you ever in Michigan? Are you married? I knew a blind woman there who had five children, and they were all deaf and dumb! _I think_ Congress ought to pass a law to prevent these people from marrying and bringing such _creatures_ into the world!" These burning words came with the fierce force of the tornado and the horrible heat of the simoon. So abruptly had she taken her leave, that she was beyond hearing before I could sufficiently recover to reply. Words I would have spoken burned upon my lips, and emotions welled up from the depths of an affection as deep, true and unfathomable as ever struggled in such a heart as that of Susan B. Anthony. Long did I dwell upon the cruel words, wondering if they could have emanated from a woman who advocated the inviolable rights and bewailed the deep wrongs of her own sex, or if Congress had the power to exclude the blind from loving and following the holiest impulses of their natures, like other human beings! After our extrication we sped on to Sherman, the highest of the mountain towns, and the Railroad Company treated us to a dinner, which, although poor, was much relished, after our protracted dieting. After leaving Laramie we had another delay of two days' length, after which we went via Cheyenne to Omaha, rejoicing, and after eleven days of weary travel felt ourselves really homeward bound. CHAPTER XXXII. "'Tis sweet to hear the watch-dog's honest bark, Bay deep-mouthed welcome as we draw Near home; 'Tis sweet to know there is an eye Will mark our coming, and look brighter When we come." We reached home in mid-winter, and found a scene of indescribable desolation, the fire having devastated so many familiar spots in the city's approach; depots in ashes and entire streets a wide waste. Finding no one to meet us, with the longed-for, loving welcome, we were tortured with fear, and went at once to Mr. Arms' place of business, where we learned that he was at home and sick. Thither we hurriedly wended our way, and, although we found the invalid unable to leave his bed, we thought it sweet to find ourselves in this our _first_ home, which, having been reared in my absence, seemed like a magic castle bridging over the sad separation. My husband soon convalesced and we began to lay plans for furnishing our new abode. I still suffered from a cold upon my lungs contracted from the long exposure on the plains, and it fell to the lot of Hattie to assist Mr. Arms in the selection of our household goods. She had become eyes and hands for me, and I never so fully realized how the touch of sympathy could blend _two_ tastes in _one_, for every article met my entire approval. I will not dwell upon the joys of our new home; but well has the poet said-- "Each man's chimney is his golden mile stone, Is the central point from which He measures every distance Through the gateway of the world Around him. "We may build more splendid habitations, Fill our rooms with paintings And with sculpture; But we cannot buy with gold The old association." In every Paradise since the first Eden the inevitable trail of the serpent has been over all, and too often it comes in its halcyon hours. Insidiously and surely came the stealthy trail of our serpent in the declining health of my husband, and the impending danger to the dear life of Hattie. I took her to every physician who made her disease a specialty, going far and near to consult them, each one of whom would shake their heads in despair, yet all seeming willing to undertake her case. But to me she was too precious to be submitted to experimental treatment. Finally the fame of Dr. Kingsley reached us. He was known as the Great American Cancer Doctor, and we went at once to his cure, in Rome, New York. The same ominous shade came with his examination, and he too failed to promise a cure. Passing through the wards of his hospitals, with their agonizing and appalling scenes, the shrieks of pain ringing like death-knells in our ears, decided us, neither of us being willing she should submit to a fate so fraught with fearful contingencies. We were stopping with a family named Crawford, who were friends of Hattie, and whose unremitting kindness will be a life-long memory. We returned to them in deep despair, when we heard of Mr. Golly, a neighboring farmer, who was performing almost miraculous cures, and we at once took the stage and went to him. A few moments conversation inspired us with confidence in the man, whose frank face was an index to his character, and whose sympathetic soul breathed through every intonation of his gentle voice. He advised her to remain for treatment, assuring her, that if she was unable to pay, it would cost her nothing. We were willing to remunerate if certain of cure, and, knowing the dread uncertainty of the case, this noble man revealed in his offer his true magnanimity. I remained with her two months, when home demands became imperative, and I longingly left one who, through nine years of _close_ and _dear_ relationship had become a life link hard to sever. With undying gratitude to good Mr. Golly, I left her confided to his fatherly care, knowing he could not prove recreant to the trust. CHAPTER XXXIII. "There was a time when meadow, Grove and stream, The earth and every common sight To me did seem Appareled in celestial light, The glory and the freshness of a dream. It is not now as it has been of yore, Turn where soe'r I may, By night or day, The things that I have seen I now can see no more." Upon our return to Chicago I found my husband so ill that he yielded to the advice of his physician to go to the Mineral Springs of St. Louis, and there being a heavy drain upon our finances, I felt it necessary to resume my travels. Disagreeable as was the task, it was tolerable only for its benefit to loved ones. Ida, the young daughter of my favorite brother, had just graduated, her laurels still green and her heart full of girlish enthusiasm. With the sanction of her parents she kindly consented to accompany me. Kindred ties are deep and strong, and her society was like a ray of sunshine in my clouded pathway. Mr. Keep, the Manager of the North-western Railway, presented us with a general pass, and we started for the Lake Superior country, first visiting many of the beautiful towns of Wisconsin, among which was Peshtigo, then but partially rebuilt from its recent ravages from fire. In canvassing we called at the house of Mrs. Armstrong, who kept a book, and asked us to call in the afternoon for the money. During the day her little daughter had become so interested in the "story of the blind girl," that she insisted upon going out to buy her a dress, which she presented in person. Little Nellie's gift of simple calico was as precious to me as if of silken texture and Tyrion dye, and "waxed rich" with the royalty of sympathy and love. We visited Escanaba, a beautiful summer resort upon Lake Michigan, spending a delightful week in the elegant hotel, which rests in the shaded seclusion of park and garden, and gaining renewed health and vigor. We had a short, sweet stay at Marquette, saw the "Isle of Yellow Sands" with its luring light, the "Pictured Rocks" bearing the tracery of the Divine Artist, and all the well-known beauties of Lake Superior. On our way to Ishpenming we were presented with tickets to the concert of "Blind Tom," the musical prodigy and whilom slave boy, through whose God-given talent the former master had amassed quite a fortune. We heard his improvised and memorized melodies, and were struck with awe and wonder. After the concert we went to the Commercial Hotel, where I was suddenly and violently attacked with a congestive chill, in which emergency Mrs. Newett, the landlady, proved a ministering angel, her thorough knowledge of the disease and prompt devoted attendance no doubt saving my life. We next visited L'Anse, the terminus of the Marquette Railroad, and found a delightful hotel, bearing the euphonious name of Lake Linden House, suggestive of the beautiful grounds gracefully sloping to the edge of the lake, whose "wide waste of waters" seemed a "sapphire sea" set with emerald gems, from one of which verdant spots gleaming in the picturesque distance rose the symmetrical spire of a cathedral, whose cross stood out like a beautiful "bas relief" from the violet background; and the solemn voice of the convent bell told the hour when orisons arose like holy incense to the skies. A fitting resort for the student, and the recluse was this secluded spot, where nature opened her fairest page, and beauty planted her altars on earth, in air and sky, and where "devotion wafts the mind above." We crossed in the steamer to Houghton, beautifully located upon a winding stream, and we were pleasantly entertained at the Butterfield House. We remained some time, lingering among the towns in its vicinity, and returned home improved in health and finances. Before settling down for the winter I resolved to visit a few towns in the vicinity of Chicago, and among them Sycamore, where there was an unexpected episode in my hitherto eventful career, a touching incident and "words fitly spoken," which the good book says are as "apples of gold in pictures of silver." My husband having once been engaged in business at Sycamore, I was in constant expectation of meeting some of his old associates; hence, was not so much surprised when, upon entering a store, a gentleman stepped down from his desk, and warmly grasping both of my hands, exclaimed: "I know you." I quickly and inquiringly responded, you are perhaps a friend of my husband? Oh no, he replied, I do not know your husband, but I have great reason to remember you, for you were the cause of my salvation! Moved and wondering, I tried in vain to recall the time when I could have been an humble agent in the hands of the Heavenly Father, even to the salvation of a human soul. Shakspeare has said that-- "Ofttimes to win us to our harm The instruments of darkness tell us truths; Win us with honest trifles, to betray us In deepest consequence." And why should not the same "honest trifles" win us to good. He then explained to me that eight years previous he was in Burlington, Wisconsin, having wandered far from the fold in which a patient, loving, Christian mother had faithfully tended her flock, teaching them the wisdom of divine truth and loving lessons of duty to God and man. He had entered a saloon and sat down to a card-table with a congenial companion, when suddenly lifting his eyes a lady stood beside him offering him a little book, and something in the expression of that face riveted his attention and penetrated the depths of his soul, inspiring resolves _new_ and _strange_. While years had passed since that time, he had never forgotten the lineaments which had changed the whole tenor of his life. Both his companion and himself bought books, threw down their cards, and from his own assurance he has never since been tempted to indulge in a game. The next winter he made his peace with God and became a consistent and steadfast member of the Congregational Church. The following spring he was married to one who was in every way fitted to minister to his higher impulses and lead him to a holier life, and while he has ever since been actively engaged in every good "word and work," he is especially engrossed with Sabbath School duties, in which field he has planted many a seed, from which has been reaped richest harvests and fairest fruitage. Their cozy, little home, is a fair and faithful mirror, reflecting the unostentatious, goodness, purity and love which characterizes every act of their private lives, whose peaceful, even tenor is indicated in the tasteful apartments, pervaded with purity and touched with the delicate tracery of taste. Fair flowers grace almost every nook of this truly Eden-home, and its bright blooming garden is a fitting type of their lives, blossoming with goodness and fragrant with the incense of holiness. It is not strange that these dear people seemed to me like loved relations; our meeting like a reunion with some pure spirits with whom my heart had held communion in other days, their voices coming to me like some sweet strain of unforgotten music. I left them, feeling grateful that my little book had been the humble instrument of so much good, and was happy in the thought that it had been so thoroughly read and discussed in the little Sabbath School, that I had many warm friends in Sycamore. Before I left he pleadingly besought me never to pass by a saloon in my canvassing tours, for I little knew the good my presence might bring about. I have faithfully followed his advice, ever buoyed by the hope of some equally happy result, and never having met with an indignity or repulse, this class of people ranking among my most generous patrons. As from every event in life we gather some golden lesson of wisdom, from this I learned to-- "Think nought a trifle Though it small appear Small sands make up the mountain, Moments make the year, And trifles life!" CHAPTER XXXIV. "While, O, my heart! as white sails shiver, And crowds are passing, and banks stretch wide; How hard to follow with lips that quiver, That moving speck on the far-off side! Farther, farther--I see it--I know it-- My eyes brim over, it melts away, Only my heart, to my heart shall show it, As I walk desolate day by day." At home for the winter, I was joined by my husband, who had entered into business, and constant tidings of Hattie's convalescence cheered me. Ida being obliged to visit home, I was left in entire charge of my house, daily bewailing the fatal effects of inexperience, when, as ever, a friend was furnished me in the hour of need. Mrs. Leavitt, my neighbor "over the way," was a lady of great personal attraction, whose beautiful head was crowned with the glory of prematurely white hair. She ministered to me in so many ways. In reading or conversation her melodious voice lent a charm to the most ordinary theme. Nor did she deem it degrading to enter the domestic realm, and there as everywhere she reigned a queen. The flutter of a handkerchief at the window blind was my "signal of distress," and when my "Ship of State" seemed sinking amid the breakers of domestic storms, her strong arm ever saved. When, the dread emergency of dinner demanded more skill than my amateur art supplied, she came to the rescue, and as she presided in the kitchen, teaching to compound some savoury sauce or delicate dish, the process was interlarded with some sage sentiment from Bacon and other profound philosophers; while, like Joe's practical sermon over the "plum pudding" came her comments "My dear! _knowledge_ is _power_," thus deeply impressing me with the potency of her presence even in the culinary department. Hence from this dear friend I received not only the "fullness of knowledge," but the richness of affection also. She finally drifted away from me to the sunny, flowery land of Florida, whence sweet memories are wafted to me through her love-laden letters, under whose sentiment there flows the same deep under-current of thought. In the dreary month of January, Hattie came with the snow drifts, bringing with her presence a bright sun-ray, for she was buoyant with the hope of health, and I rejoicing that her life could be lengthened, perhaps saved, hence the winter passed in mapping out plans for the future. But, with the early spring, the dread disease reappeared with such intensity that I felt her doom to be irrevocably sealed, while "hope fled and mercy sighed." Prompted by a hope of enhancing her interest, I accompanied her to Morrison, Illinois, where she was awaited by two loving sisters, who, together with their noble husbands, so tenderly cared for her that it in some degree appeased the sad reluctance of giving her into other hands. Mr. Arms' health had now become so seriously impaired that he had determined to seek the benefit of the Hot Springs of Arkansas, and, after he left, I secured the services of Miss Josie Tyson as traveling companion, and started for the lead mining regions of Wisconsin, making Mineral Point my headquarters. This town is the shipping-place for the ore, and I was surprised to find it with several thousand inhabitants--abounding in wealth and greatly advanced in culture, while it became afterward endeared to me by the extreme kindness of its people. My little jaunts from this place by private conveyance made a pleasant variety in the monotony of travel, after which we visited Mendota and South Western Iowa, where we spent a delightful summer. We returned to Morrison the day before Thanksgiving, and I lingered two weeks with Hattie. Surely "blessings brighten as they take their flight," and with us the sadly, blissful moments flew all too fast, both silently impressed that it might be our last communion. In my absence her delicate and refined taste had designed a gold ring which she had made as a parting gift. As she placed it upon my finger she leaned her head upon my shoulder and wept bitterly, telling me in tenderest tones her sorrow at leaving one who so much needed her, pleading with me to have patience to bear the separation. These tears from fountains deep and pure must have been as potent at the throne of grace as the one so graphically described by Sterne; even that of the Recording Angel, who, in the bright Empyrean, dropped a tear upon the word left by the Accusing Spirit "and blotted it out forever." Physicians agreeing that she might live at least a year, I yielded to her persuasion to go South for the benefit of my own health, and-- "In silence we parted, for neither could speak; But the trembling lip and the fast fading cheek To both were betraying what neither could tell; How deep was the pang of that silent farewell." After a short season devoted to the arrangement of home matters, I started South via the Chicago and Alton Railroad. At Dwight, Illinois, we stopped at the McPherson House, where we had a delightful suite of rooms. The proprietor had attained to the years allotted to man, yet was so wonderfully preserved that he seemed a stalwart man of fifty. He spent an evening in our parlor, feasting us with the richness of his reminiscence. He had served in both the regular army and navy, his travels leading him to lands afar, and his naval service landing him at almost every port in the world, yet he had never carried a more dangerous weapon than a penknife, always having been unharmed and unmolested. His creed consisted of six words, viz.: "Deal mercifully, walk humbly before God." These "articles of faith," simple as the "new commandment" which Christ gave to his disciples, I give unto you, and beautiful as the "Golden Rule" of Confucius, were certainly in my own case carried out both "in the letter and the spirit;" for he at first peremptorily refused any remuneration for our elegant accommodations, but, finding me inexorable, very reluctantly consented to accept half pay. The weather grew so cold, and the times so dull, we did not halt again until we reached St. Louis, where we both had relatives and friends who helped us to while away the holiday hours. While there we visited the Institution for the Blind, our pleasure being much enhanced by the rare music we heard and the polite attention of Professor Workman, the Superintendent. The Superintendent of the Iron Mountain Railway presented us with a pass, jocularly remarking that it was equal to an eighty dollar New Year's gift. Mr. C.C. Anderson, of Adams' express, upon the strength of our old Baltimore acquaintance, gave me letters of introduction, which afterward proved of infinite value. CHAPTER XXXV. "With the fingers of the blind We are groping here to find What the hieroglyphics mean Of the _unseen_ in the _seen_. What the thought which underlies Nature's masking and disguise, What it is that hides beneath Blight and bloom, and birth and death." We left St. Louis with its noble depot and stupendous bridge, and reaching Iron Mountain we seemed to have emerged from dense darkness into dazzling light. Going to the clean, elegant hotel, our faces, covered with St. Louis soot, were in such grim contrast with our sunny surroundings, that we had to go through an elaborate course of ablution before we could feel ourselves presentable. Iron Mountain is a _monster_ mass of iron, one of the largest and purest of the kind in the world. In 1836 it was bought for the insignificant sum of six hundred dollars, and now its worth is incalculable. Being unwilling to brave mud and small towns, we made no stops until we reached Little Rock, Arkansas, where, at the untimely hour of three o'clock in the morning, we went to the Central House, the only hotel which had survived their recent fires, and which we found so crowded that even the doors were closed against us. Our party of five went out in quest of shelter, the night pervaded by "the blackness of darkness," and the rain pouring in torrents. One of the gentlemen was a member of the Legislature, and quite an invalid. Growing faint from exhaustion, he fell into a mud hole, and was fairly immersed in its slimy depths. After a long search we finally found a poor refuge and an execrable bed, but in the morning were favored in securing comfortable private accommodations. While at Little Rock we visited all the State institutions, and among them that for the blind. After ten days of business success, we went to all the towns on the Arkansas River, and were charmed with its scenery, for while the classical meander, it winds in graceful beauty through forests which, although too low and ragged to please the eye, clothe a country otherwise picturesque in character. A strange peculiarity of the Arkansas River is that of the emerald green color which deeply tinges its crystal clearness, a fact which I found no one able to explain satisfactorily. Fort Smith is nominally at the head of river navigation, but is really accessible by steamer only during a very small portion of the year, when the water is at an unusually high stage. It is beautifully located, and has a main street known as "The Avenue," which is between two and three hundred feet in width. This avenue is a great business centre, and at almost all times a scene of animated interest, while at its head stand prominently a cathedral and a convent. The swift passing panorama of the avenue is ofttimes varied by a picturesque group of Chocktaws or Cherokees, with grotesque costume, this place being their principal rendezvous. Just at the edge of the town is a National Cemetery of great natural beauty, with but little of the stiff regularity which usually characterizes such places. We found a great lack of educational advantages throughout the entire State of Arkansas, there being no public schools, and the private ones few in number and poor in character; but it has never been my good fortune to meet kinder hearts than were encountered among the masses. At Arkadelphia we had a regular Arkansas deluge, and the first class hotel of this flourishing town of two thousand souls would indeed have been a poor ark for Father Noah and his family. Its walls were lathed but not plastered, and from our apartment we had an extended view of the entire floor. Our furniture consisted of two wooden chairs, a box turned upside down for a toilet-stand, a rickety bedstead, with unmusical creak, a tumble-down lounge, and dismal, but genuine tallow dip. In these quarters we spent four days, during which time the rain poured with unremitting constancy. In the parlor of the same edifice was an elegant piano, and magnificently dressed ladies, and our constant amazement was, how, in this strange country, extremes could so amicably meet. I found in Arkadelphia two blind gentlemen, who were prosperous merchants; and to me, this spoke volumes for a community who would so generously sustain the afflicted rather than allow them the condescension of beggary. We next visited Hope, a town of three thousand inhabitants, yet having numbered but three years of existence; and while these people are considered so slow in progression, this fact indicated a considerable degree of Yankee go-a-head activity. This town is one of the important cotton markets of the State, which branch of trade imparts an additional business activity. We turned toward Hot Springs, the Baden of America, and when within twenty miles of this wonderful place we encountered a throng of that class of human pests known as "hotel runners," thick as bees, and more stingingly annoying, for they especially abounded in low jests and ribald stories which grate so harshly upon sensitive ears. It would certainly be an act of philanthropy, both to the hotels and their patrons, to take some measure for the suppression of this nuisance. The approach to Hot Springs, and the first glimpse of the stream, smoking as if its bed rested upon some subterranean fire, are in themselves awe-inspiring. The valley is narrowed to the limits of three hundred feet, and the road winds gracefully around the base of the mountain, upon whose top the cold spring furnishes a better beverage than iced champagne; while close by its side bubbles the boiling spring, in which eggs can be cooked to perfection; and with a little seasoning of salt and pepper, the most luscious soup can be improvized, while the boiling water _au naturale_ can be drunk in copious, life-giving draughts. The hotels are ranged upon either side of the road, and have all the necessary bathing appointments. Among the many novelties to a stranger was the process of dressing chicken, which was their staple article of food. The hot stream was the only necessary cauldron for the scalding process, while the feathers were thrown into the swift current, and rapidly carried away by the natural sewerage, a decidedly labor-saving process, and somewhat characteristic of the locality and its native cooks. The various forms of treatment consist of hot, cold, vapor and mud baths, and have been so often described that a repetition would be monotonous; their efficacy being almost unfailing, except in cases of pulmonary disease, in which they would soon prove fatal. One who has ever enjoyed these baths will always long for the luxury years after leaving them behind. We reluctantly left this valley, teeming with rich quarries of valuable stone and various ores, luscious fruits, and the trifling drawbacks of rattlesnakes, centipedes and tarantulas, and went to Texaskana, which is located at the junction of the three States of Texas, Arkansas and Louisiana, hence its name. It is a great railroad centre, and it is very curious to visit the depot amid the rushing thousands who daily pass through this place on their way to Texas. It is a wildly romantic place, built upon a clearing of forty acres without any decided plan, streets running at random very much like the old cowpaths of Manhattan, and houses grouped in picturesque confusion. Finding the main hotel crowded, the proprietor manifested an unheard-of disinterestedness in a two hours search to find us suitable accommodations elsewhere, an act of magnanimity worthy of especial note and remembrance. CHAPTER XXXVI. "Oh, ever thus from childhood's hour, I've seen my fondest hopes decay; I never loved a tree, or flower, But it was first to fade away. I never nursed a dear gazelle, To glad me with its soft black eye, But when it came to know me well And love me, it was sure to die." We reached Jefferson, Texas, when the excitement was rife over the murder of Bessie Moore, the terrible details of which sent a thrill of horror over the entire United States. It rained during the several days of our stay there; but thanks to the earnest endeavors of Mrs. Frazer, of the Frazer House, I did very well in my business. Many of the fairest portions of the town had been laid waste by the destructive ravages of incendiary fires, and had never been rebuilt. Marshall is one of the most enterprising towns in the State, being a great railroad centre, and settled almost exclusively by Northern people. We had a most delightful visit to Shreveport, Louisiana: It lies at the head of Red River navigation, and is the port of entry for New Orleans steamers, being a place of great wealth and equal generosity. The editors worked with great zest to aid me, and among the many people I met very few failed to buy books. The genial skies and bright sunshine made it hard to realize that it was the winter season; and I shall ever revert to its warm-hearted people not only with pleasure but with gratitude. At Longview--in the dilapidated prison-like room of my hotel, I received tidings of the death and burial of Hattie. My surroundings were in such sad accord with my feelings, that I wondered if the sun would ever shine, or the flowers bloom again, so much light went out with her dear life. At Longview we took a branch of the International Railroad to Palestine--Mr. Smith, the Vice-President of the road, not only largely patronizing me, but presenting me with a six months' pass and the assurance that if I ever again visited the State a letter addressed to him would ensure a repetition of the favor. Thence we went to Galveston, where Mr. Arms had been for three months trying the efficacy of sea-bathing. This city is beautifully located upon a fertile island in Galveston Bay. The streets are lined upon either side with oleander trees, which, arching over at the top, form a very bower of bloom, while every breath of the clear bright air is balmy with the odor of orange blossoms. The Mesquite trees, with attenuated leaves and gracefully drooping pods, adorn all the parks of the city, the beans forming a delicious dish either cooked or raw. No wonder Texas is called "The Happy Hunting Ground," for the five delightful weeks we spent in Galveston seemed like a dream of Paradise. Its many pleasures were varied by sailing and bathing, every morning finding us upon the pure, white beach, where the waves whispered the sweetest melodies. We went back to Houston in the month of bloom, and no "vale of Cashmere" could have been more beautiful in its "feast of roses." The street car ran to the depot, and we found in it but one passenger, a gentleman who carried a rose in his hand. Noticing at once that I was blind, he arose and said to me, "Although you cannot see the beautiful flowers you can inhale their sweetness," at the same time asking me to accept the rose. His delicate kindness and urbane manner struck a deep chord in my heart, and I never think of Houston without recalling the gentle touch and tone. I must not omit to mention an act of generosity upon the part of the railroad office at Galveston. Leaving there I had paid fare to Houston, and the agent refunded five dollars, adding that I should never be allowed to pay railroad fare. After remaining two weeks at Houston I took the Sunset Route to San Antonia, and stopped at the Central House on the main plaza. This is the oldest town in Texas, and is called "The Stone City," its antique buildings and narrow winding streets giving it a quaint, time-worn air. San Antonia River rises from a low spring, four miles distant from the city, and gracefully winds through its streets, and is here and there spanned by beautiful rustic bridges. The "City Gardens" are one block distant from the main plaza, and are located upon an island of great natural beauty, romantically approached by a floating bridge. The air is cool and refreshing from the river breeze, fair flowers, bloom and sweet voiced birds rival the musical instruments which lead the merry feet of the dancers. A mile from the city are the San Pedro Springs, a lovely park often acres in area, where springs flow out into crystal purling streams, forming islands, lakes, and ponds white and fragrant with their lily bloom, while shining green lizards and other reptiles peep curiously out from the rocks and glide away into the stream. Just across the main plaza stands the old Spanish cathedral, with its musical chime of bells sending out on the perfumed air melodies sweet as vesper songs. We went to the old Alamo, felt the antique cannon used by the Mexicans, were shown the room in which Bowie died and the spot where fell the brave Colonel Crockett, who, with his handful of men, so gallantly held the citadel, at which time he was taken alive, together with five other prisoners, and ordered by Santa Anna to be killed. Just before the fatal sword-thrust, which ended a life so fraught with daring and danger, he sprang like a tiger at the throat of Santa Anna, his face wearing even in death this expression of fiendish, scowling hatred. San Antonia being the great market for the frontier, is a place of great business activity. While there I was struck with amazement to see a dirty, ragged man mounted upon a jaded, dilapidated horse, a very Sancho Panza and Rezinante, smilingly asking alms of the passer-by. I had often heard of, but never before saw a veritable "beggar on horseback." CHAPTER XXXVII. "Light, warmth, and sprouting greenness, And o'er all Blue, stainless, steel-bright ether Raining down Tranquility upon the deep hushed town The freshening meadow and the hillside brown." We went from San Antonio to Austin, the capital of Texas, where I had a delightful interview with Governor Hubbard, who, although much engrossed with the cares of State, seemed for the time to lay them all aside, and gave me his undivided attention. Certainly if "all the world's a stage, and men and women merely players," this versatile gentleman appeared as well in the role of courtier as in that of the statesman. The Government Buildings are of finished architectural art, and stand amid cultivated grounds, upon a commanding eminence. At the State House door is a monument to the memory of Colonel David Crockett and the brave companions who foil with him at St. Alamo. The public Institutions of Austin are a credit to "The Lone Star" State, especially that for the Blind, at which I spent a day, and was charmingly entertained by Dr. Raney and his accomplished wife. The matron also dispensed hospitalities with so much true dignity and grace, and I never visited an institution in which the inmates were so pre-eminently refined, its sixty-five pupils numbering so many accomplishments. In response to a solicitation from Dr. Raney I addressed the school. This was done through a social chat, in which the little group circled close around me, and while I never so longed for "the poetry of speech" to render the deep emotion of my heart, I really believe no elocutionist, with all "the charm of delivery," could have had a more attentive audience. Waco is known as the Athens of Texas, and among its many Institutions of Learning is the Baptist University, open to both sexes. It is under the charge of Doctor Burlison, who extended to me an invitation to meet the school at their chapel exercises. The "sweet hour of prayer" being over, he disposed of many of my books and baskets among the pupils. This gentleman was deeply engrossed with the educational interests of the State, and had traveled over its length and breadth to enhance its prosperity, being more especially engaged in the public school system. The next day twenty-five of the young lady pupils, chaperoned by their teachers, called upon me at the McLennan House. They were all characterized by discreet and lady-like deportment, and as there was a fine toned piano in the parlor, there was no lack of artistic music. We had also an equally kind reception from the Reverend Mr. Wright and lady of the Methodist College. Waco is on the Brazos River, which is spanned by a graceful suspension bridge, the pride of the town. During my visit they held their celebrated fete known as "The Maifest," which lasted two days, and the gay and fantastic procession in which all professions and trades were represented made it almost as gorgeous as a carnival. From Waco we went to Dallas, which is located upon Trinity River, and is the Metropolis of Northern Texas. There was little to note in my stay there, except the amusingly antagonistic reasons assigned by two men for not giving me their patronage. Their business houses were upon the same side of one street, and not very remote from each other. One refused because my book was not sufficiently religious in its tone, and the other because he saw the name of the Lord upon one of its pages. It was plainly evident in both cases that the name of the "Almighty Dollar" as its price was the most probable impediment. It was now the last of May, and the intense heat induced me to go northward; indeed those who hope to enjoy a visit in that part of Texas must go at some time between the months of September and May, for during the remainder of the year the inhabitants do nothing but "try to keep cool." We stopped over one train at the beautiful town of Sherman, and then hurried on to St. Louis, where I found my old friend Mrs. Anderson, who, having visited Baltimore the previous summer, had learned all the particulars of the death of the beloved Superintendant of our Institution during my life there. Mr. Charles H. Keener was the son of Christian Keener, the founder of Greenmount Cemetery of Baltimore, a sweet resting place which could fitly receive the appellation given their cemeteries by the Turks--"A City of the Living." He was the brother of Bishop J.C. Keener, of the Methodist Episcopal Church South, who is quite celebrated as a Divine. His life was characterized by a succession of shining acts of self-sacrifice and affection, and his nature, so quiet and unobtrusive, shrunk so sensitively from ostentation, that greatness must have been "thrust upon him" ere he held a name emblazoned upon the roll of fame. His character in contrast with publicly great men has been most graphically told by the German poet, who sang-- "One on earth in silence wrought, And his grave in silence sought; But the younger, brighter form, Passed in battle, and in storm." As the Superintendent of our Institution, he held the hearts of every inmate. His younger brother, in a letter of response to some queries, said--"He was an Engineer in the United States Navy during the War of the Rebellion, a devoted son, a true patriot, and an earnest Christian man." He was afterward stationed on the "Island of Navassa," one of the West India Group, within one hundred miles of Cuba, and was acting as Superintendent of a Phosphate Company which owned, and worked the Island. He had been there during eighteen months, when, in September, 1872, the yellow fever broke out in the Island. After several weeks' resistance he, too, succumbed to this terrible scourge, and, after a six days' illness, died on the 9th of November, 1872. His brother also feelingly makes mention of his last letter, written upon the day of his attack, as "a marvel of calm resignation." It runs thus: "I am fast getting ready to be counted among the sick. When you know I am really dead write to--(here follow the names of many friends) and tell them to meet me in Heaven. One by one we are passing over, why should we hesitate? why should I with no one to care for? Surely I have seen trouble enough in this life! May I feel as little dread of dying at the last moment as I do now." His last words were addressed to his second officer, who had been addicted to dissipation, but who had pledged himself to reform. As he was carried out to look upon the sea which he loved so well, he said: "Mawson, remember your pledge," when his head immediately dropped and he entered into the life eternal. So did the life of this good man pass gently away while he was still in the prime of manhood. He was carried to beautiful Greenmount for burial, near the city in which his name will be coupled with loving memories for long years to come. CHAPTER XXXVIII. "Alas for him who never sees The stars shine through his cypress trees! Who hopeless lays his dead away, Nor looks to see the breaking day Across the mournful marbles play! Who hath not learned in hours of faith The truth to flesh and sense unknown, That Life is ever Lord of Death, And love can never lose its own!" A short time after our return home, Miss Tyson, having become weary of traveling, I accompanied her to Morrison, and after spending a few days there left her with friends and went alone to Pecatonica, when Ida again accompanied me in my travels. On my return I stopped at Winnebago, Illinois, to visit the hallowed spot in which Hattie lay buried. As I approached the cemetery mingled memories of her beautiful life came surging through my soul, and a deep silent awe stole over me. I sent my friends away to another part of the grounds that I might be entirely alone with my dead, and as I knelt in the stillness of that sacred hour I felt that the grave held only the precious clay, and that the sweet spirit-presence was there trying to comfort me as it had always done in earth-life, while, as the soft sound of the June wind stole through the trembling evergreen near by, it seemed to whisper a sweet song, whose burden sighed-- Love will dream and faith will trust, Since he who knows our needs is just; That somehow, somewhere, meet we must. As I turned away I felt the strong ray of sunshine which fell upon her grave, and rested there a halo and a promise! Our first stop going Westward was at Kansas City, and as it was the first of August we found the colored people out in a well-filled procession, celebrating this, one of their great Emancipation days. Ida having seen very few colored people during her life was furnished an amusing entertainment. We also visited Lawrence, which is so marked in Kansas annals, and Topeka, the capital, but as my experience in this State differs so materially from that in any other (not making sufficient through my sales to cover expenses), I will hurriedly pass it by. We took the sleeping car at Topeka, but, as a "washout" had destroyed the track for some distance, I left the train with the other passengers, and walked with precision over culverts and places of danger with ofttimes only a narrow plank for my track. A gentleman who kindly led me smilingly said this was indeed "walking by faith," and it was true blind eyes never have aught but faith "as a lamp to their feet and a guide to their path." After leaving Salina there was nothing to be seen but a blank, desolate plain, as monotonous as a silent, sailless sea, grimly varied by an occasional station, with a few "dugouts" for houses. The mail on this train was most unceremoniously delivered by being thrown from the cars, and it was very amusing to witness the confusion and rush for its contents, for the love-laden and business-burdened missives are as dear to these people as to the most cultured members of society. The frequent recurrence of the little sand-hill communities, known as prairie dog cities, was of novel interest to us, and the habits of these creatures a curious study. They build their sand-hill habitations as skillfully as the beaver erects his dam, and are so untiring in following their instinct of self-preservation that they stand as constant sentinels at the entrance of their homes, and in any case of danger play to such perfection the role of "the artful dodger" that they are never caught. It is a singular fact that these animals are very rarely killed, and if by chance some "unlucky dog" should lose his life he is hurried out of sight by his devoted companions with so much celerity that his body is never found. Fifty miles before reaching Denver the snow crowned tops of Gray's and James' Peaks are clearly revealed, while from one point alone will Pike's Peak allow the traveler a glimpse of his glorious grandeur. We were told that the former mountains were more frequently visible at a distance of one hundred miles. We neared Denver just as the sun was sinking, enthroned in purple and amber and gold, with a faint, delicate rosy flush tinging the edge of the more royal hues. Its truly Italian beauty was so vividly pictured to me by Ida, that I could almost realize the regal splendor of a Colorado sunset. Completely tired out and covered with alkaline dust, we were grateful for the rest and comfort afforded by the elegant Wentworth House. We spent a week in Denver, fraught with interest, for while it is a city destitute of the charm of historical associations and musty memories, which add so much interest to most foreign cities and many American localities, it so abounds in youthful life with its warm and bounding currents, its vim and vigor, that it teems with varying attractions. Its broad avenues, softened by shade, its stately residences and mammoth business blocks, render it as imposing as many old cities, and indicate but little of its real primitive struggles for life, and the dangerous aggressions of the "Red Man;" its truly western pluck having ranked these among the things that were. The elliptical basin in which Denver is built, sloping north and east, gives it a picturesque and extended view; the mountains losing themselves in one direction in the now historic "Black Hills," and in the other merging into the "Spanish Peaks" and "Sangre de Christo Range," so named from a natural symbol of the Christian faith, a snowy cross grandly gleaming in the distance. Taking the Colorado Central Railway we went through the Clear Creek Cañon, with its rich and fertile fields to Golden, so beautifully sheltered in the valley at the base of the mountain, and whose air was more life-giving to me than that of any other portion of Colorado. In the vicinity of this little Eden we climbed a rock seven hundred feet high, and while two laborious hours were occupied in the ascent, we were amply recompensed when we stood upon the smooth rock which crowned its summit, where the merry picnicers pause amid their pastimes, absorbed in the sublimity of their surroundings, for while they are basking in the soft sunlight the sound of the distant thundering and lightning in the mountain tops recalls the story of Sinai, where the multitude below stood silent and breathless, and from the roar of Heaven's artillery above issued the written tables of stone. From this our lofty site the clear ether of the intervening fourteen miles revealed the city of Denver looming up like a lonely vision. Turning toward the "Gold Centres," whose wealth, if the half were told, would seem as fabulous as an "Arabian Nights Story," we visited "Central City" and "Black Hawk,", which are so close together that it has been facetiously said "It is impossible for a citizen to tell where he lives without going out doors and looking at some landmark." These two places are really built upon foundations of gold, and many of the houses constructed of gold-bearing quartz. The depot at Black Hawk might justly be denominated "Porter's Folly," for this magnificent structure was built by a reckless miner for a quartz-mill, at an expenditure of one hundred thousand dollars, and the miner was General Fitz John Porter. At Central City we stopped at the Teller House, and received marked kindness from Mr. Bush, the proprietor. Mr. Rhodes, editor of the daily paper, aided me greatly in his well-written notices, and invited us to dine at his house, where we were delightfully entertained by himself and his accomplished wife. We crossed the country by stage to Idaho Springs, over a region not only grand and diversified in scenery, but rich in mineral wealth, the road winding through intricate mountain heights and wild cañons. The springs are the chief resort of this portion of Colorado, and, aside from their wildly beautiful surroundings, furnish great facilities for the exhilarating hot soda baths and swimming bath-houses, in which elegantly costumed bathers of both sexes hold high carnival. The hotel was quite romantically situated near a meandering creek, which murmured by its side and made my pleasant room upon the ground floor musical with its rippling flow. Days of dreamy beauty, and nights of cool, invigorating rest, render this a watering place of remarkable attraction. Georgetown stands next in size to Denver, and is an outgrowth of the rich mining wealth with which it is environed. Indeed, it seemed as if some geni had touched all around it with a magic wand. Silver-ore was strewn in rich profusion, piled like cord-wood in huge masses at every step; was talked of in the street, the hotel, and the home, until it seemed as if we thought, ate, and breathed silver. At the beautiful town of Boulder we stopped at the prominent and luxurious hotel known as the American House, and after a short stay took the stage for Caribon, then the most elevated town in the State, standing considerably over nine thousand feet above the sea-level. A romantic and ever-ascending ride of a day's length was required to reach this eyrie, and at noon-day the driver allowed us to stop for our dinner, when our wayside inn was improvized from the sheltering shade of grand old trees, our table a rock, our chairs the same. No ambrosia could have been sweeter to the gods than was our sylvan feast, with the appetite induced by mountain air and exercise; no nectar finer than the crystal draught, dipped from the little stream; no orchestra more musical than its varied tones. Although it was yet September, there was a severe snow-storm, and, the next day, when it had subsided, a party went out to pick raspberries, which were sweet and delicious in flavor, while beside the deep snow-banks bloomed flowers as beautiful as the rarest exotics. Ladies are so vigorous in that country that they think nothing of a walk of many miles, but the intensely rarefied air of the mountains made my own respiration very difficult. We returned to Denver, where our few days' visit was all too short, for it was with painful reluctance we yielded to the demands of business interest, and left a city which to us was fraught with so much pleasure, and went to Colorado Springs, a place of five thousand inhabitants, and one of the most stirring towns in the State. It is very level, being symmetrically laid out in broad and shaded streets, and derives its name from the fact of being the station from which tourists take the stage for the springs at Manitou, six miles distant. It is also the point from which pleasure parties daily leave for Pike's Peak. One of the main features of interest in our visit to Colorado Springs, was the presence of the great "Man of the Period," over whom the stupendous heart of Barnum throbbed with exultant pride, and scientists waxed wondering and eloquent. This august personage, who was no other than the since sensational "Stone Man of Colorado," was lying in state, in all the majesty of his marbleized grandeur, and was the magnet toward which throngs of wonder-seekers were irresistibly drawn, all of whom, as if entering the presence chamber of the King of Terrors, seemed awed by this silent "representative of the dead past," and with hushed voices and bated breath, lingered over the lineaments of one, which, if it had been known at that time was not a real petrifaction, would perhaps have excited only feelings of ridicule and words of derision. We were willing to be humbugged with the rest for the sacred emotions experienced under the silent potency of this phenomenon of the nineteenth century; nor can we even in the light of subsequent revelations deny the fact that he was "fearfully and wonderfully made." We next visited Pueblo, where this giant was exhumed, but were not at all pleased with the town or its surroundings, and suffered greatly from thirst rather than drink the offensive water for which the residents are so heavily taxed. It was so apparently poisonous in odor, that if it had been in the malarious climate of Chicago, instead of the exhilarating atmosphere of Colorado, all would have died from its effects. We have never visited a State which held such diversified interest as that of Colorado, a fitting resort for the invalid, the pleasure seeker, artist, scientist or poet. No place but some haunt of the Muses could boast the ethereal beauty of a "Glen Eyrie," and no wonder the "Garden of the Gods" is supposed to have once been the abode of "Great Jove himself," and that there fair Venus bathed her beauteous form, and girdled with the fabled "Cestus," held her court amid the immortal beauties of the sacred spot. We came through Kansas via the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe Railroad, meeting with no better success than that which marked our former trip in that region of country, and could only conclude, that while their crops were at that time large and lucrative, the grasshopper raid had taught them a lesson of economy which they were rigidly observing. Before returning home we visited the only surviving sister of my mother, who lived in Salsbury, Missouri, and who not having heard from me since the Chicago fire, concluded that I might have perished in its flames. She and her husband were both over seventy years old, and strange to say, were like so many of the old people I have met in my travels, that my readers might suppose my heroes and heroines had found the "fabled fountain" and secured immortal youth. Be this as it may, it could certainly be said of her husband, as of the father of Evangeline: "Stalwart and stately of form Was the man of seventy summers; Hearty and hale was he As an oak that is covered with snow-flakes." I had a delightful visit of two days with this aged couple, during which my aunt rehearsed to me many incidents in the early life of my mother, and presented me with a lock of her hair, which, as a memento, is ever magnetically associated with the "loved ones gone before." Returning to Chicago, I found my husband, whose health was far worse than when I saw him in Galveston. This, together with a combination of surrounding circumstances, suggested the project of writing up "The World as I have found it," and I spent the greater part of the winter of 1877-8 in this work. If it should appear to my friends and readers, that I found only the "sunny side" of life, and they should wonder why I so seldom saw the shadow, or received the thrust of unkindness, I can simply say that I was almost universally so well received, that the few cases of unkind treatment became the exception and not the rule, and these were generally so bitterly repented, and so amply amended, that I felt it would be an act of ingratitude to note them in my experiences. Hoping that these last missives to my kind and noble patrons will be as well received as was the first humble effort of my girlhood--"Incidents in the Life of a Blind Girl," I can only add in conclusion, that if any one of the patient followers of my wanderings has found aught of sufficient interest to while away the tedium of an otherwise weary hour, or gleaned from the dross a single "golden grain," I will be amply recompensed. HELP THE BLIND TO HELP THEMSELVES. Throughout the entire length my unpretending offering my aim has been, as far as was compatible with a personal history, to make my pages interesting to the general public, but I cannot close without addressing some especial words to those, who, like myself, must be content to live with vision veiled from the world's transcendant beauties, and whose life-paths from a variety of causes seem ofttimes utterly rayless. Blindness has been universally regarded as one of the most terrible afflictions of an adverse fate, nor can it be denied that it is one which requires a great amount of grace, and all the reason and judgment one can command, to bear the burden with any degree of patience, much less with perfect resignation. It is so often the result of impaired health, while the severe test of maltreatment or even the most skillful treatment, tends to deplete the system and depress the spirits. Again, the blind are in the majority of cases the children of poor parents, and subject to all the neglect and exposure incident to poverty, while, if they are born in affluence, they are so petted and pampered, in consequence of their affliction, that they become utterly dependent and useless, and contract habits that should be and which under other circumstances would be broken. It is no more necessary for a blind child, with proper instruction and careful training, to become awkward and ungainly, than for one in full possession of all the senses, the drawback of blindness simply demanding a little more patience and perseverance to attain the ease and grace, which is as inevitable as in other children. In all the category of first instructions for the period of childhood, from the muscular education by which a babe is taught to take its first tottering step or the voluntary movement necessary to grasp and hold an object, to the lisping language of love intoned in the first sweet prattle, the all-pervading spirit, from the first to the last lesson, is that of self-reliance. While blind children of wealth are waited upon until they become utterly incapable of helping themselves, and through a mistaken kindness are so constantly ministered to, they lapse into passive, pantomimic puppets, void of the vitality and sparkle which, by their natural endowments, is attainable. I have made it a guiding rule, throughout my life, never to consider there was anything which, with the proper effort, I could not do, and my experience proves a confirmation of the fact that there were very few things I could not accomplish. I would fain impress this lesson upon my blind friends, feeling as I do that it would prove of untold service to them. It is not at all necessary that the blind should so lose their dignity or individuality, as to allow themselves to be addressed in word or tone at all different from that directed to other people, and, as an illustration of this point, I may be pardoned for relating an incident of my school life. A gentleman once called at our Institution in Baltimore, and, immediately after his introduction to a group of blind girls, of which I was one, he said: "Ladies, how would you manage to select a husband?" Flaming with indignation, I impulsively replied: "Sir! We do not deal in such merchandise?" and smarting with a sense of the indignity, I immediately left his presence. I was afterward called to account by our worthy Superintendent to whom the person in question preferred a complaint of rude treatment. Begging permission to explain the situation, I respectfully enquired of our official in case this same gentleman were thrown for the first time in the presence of an equal number of society ladies, who could see if it would be possible for him to address a similar remark to them, without being charged with rudeness and presumption, or if it were not even questionable whether he would dare to address them in such a way at all--and we, although blind, felt that we had the right to demand the same deference and respect. It is almost needless to say that I was fully exonerated from all blame, and honorably discharged from the presence of my interrogator. In the course of my travels I am ofttimes asked if I desire my meals sent to my room, presupposing, as would be naturally inferred, the possibility of great awkwardness in my manner of eating; hence I invariably decline this offer of privacy, as there need be nothing in our manner of eating at all _outre_ or disagreeable. It is of course necessary to have a graceful attendant, and my first great care is to instruct my guide in all the phases of table ministration, which are more varied and important than is discernible to those who can see. I also take great pains to instruct them in the art of walking with me properly; never allowing them to _tell_ me how to proceed, but to give me a tacit understanding _of_ their movements in order to direct my own, and this system in my own experience has been reduced to a science. Many persons feel that it is far more sad and terrible to have once possessed sight, and afterward to become blind, than never to have seen at all, but I cannot agree with them, and will never cease to be grateful that until I was twelve years old, I could grasp, through sight, the unfolding beauties of nature and art, which are now so often reproduced that I can see all the manifold loveliness spread out before me, and for a season forget that I am blind. Those who are born in blindness, are, to a great extent, denied this pleasure, for it is almost impossible through the imagination to form any adequate conception of "things seen." One of the most deplorable results of blindness is the fact that so many of its victims condescend to the degradation of beggary, thus bringing disgrace upon those who try to make an honorable living. I once had occasion to go into a prominent Express Office of Chicago upon important business of my own. The agent discovering that I was blind, and in evident anticipation of a draught upon his pocket, resorted to it and drew out fifty cents. After learning my business he manifested considerable embarrassment, and as slyly as possible deposited his money in its original place, and no doubt hoped the movement was not observed. Thus it so often becomes as apparent to us as to others, that the majority of people jump at the conclusion, that if one is blind, they must of necessity resort to begging, and I deeply regret that so many establish this belief by their conduct. It has been to me a serious source of annoyance that so large a number of persons endeavor to impress upon my mind the idea that it is an act of charity to patronize me to the extent of the purchase of a single book, while just after me a strong man, with faculties unimpaired, a man amply able to do other work, may enter, and they buy from him anything he may have to sell without ever dreaming that it is a charity to do so. But I am truly grateful to the majority of those with whom I come in business contact for their appreciation of my energy and enterprise, as they almost invariably consider mine a laudable way of making a living. A great many blind persons offer as an excuse for inactivity that they have no capital to do with, but even this obstacle may be removed, as is so often the case with impediments in the paths of those who see. In Marysville, California, I became acquainted with a gentleman who lost his sight in middle life, and exhausted all his means upon oculists and other measures intended to restore his eyes. Finding the case hopeless, and having a family dependent upon him for support, instead of sitting down in despair or resorting to begging, he went to a friend and borrowed two dollars and a half. With this he bought a basket, filled it with fruit and went out to sell it. This basket became the nucleus of an extensive business for some years after, and, at the time I met him, he was a highly respected citizen, possessing a comfortable home and a considerable bank account, though still holding a large fruit-stand as a permanent resource. Another instance could be cited in the case of a young man of the same State who became suddenly blind, when some friend told him he had better go to San Francisco and hold out his hat, "for he would certainly do well." Wounded to the quick at such advice, he replied that, in case he accepted such a suggestion, he would solicit enough to buy a dose of strychnine and close out his business. Soon after an artist made him a proposition to travel for the sale of chromos in the interest of a gallery. He accepted it, and by that means soon became successful and independent. We do not feel it necessary to work for the sympathy of the public, for we are already conscious of having that; but we do sincerely desire their respect, and, if freely extended, their patronage, as do any other class of people plying a legitimate vocation. Among the throng with whom. I have come in contact in the course of canvassing, the vexed question, paramount in the minds of the majority, and one frequently addressed to me in person. It is: why I do not avail myself of an Institution for the Blind, or--as they almost universally dub it--an Asylum in which I will be taken care of for life, almost invariably adding that they are taxed for this purpose. I desire here to correct an impression which, in the main, is utterly false. These institutions are (together with others) supported by the States in which they are located, and in so far as every property holder has a larger or smaller amount of State tax, they help to sustain the Institutions for the Blind among others. These State institutions are intended only for the education of the blind, and not for their support. For the purpose of education there are a certain number of years allotted to each pupil, according to their age at the time of admission. At the expiration of this term they have no alternative but to go back to the poor homes of their respective counties, more unfitted to endure their privations than before they were permitted a taste of a better mode of life, and no matter how sad their sacrifices, or how bitter their trials, they are never looked after by the Institutions in which they graduate. In their new life, however high may be their excellence in music or any other accomplishment, or how great their effort to make them available, their surroundings are all against them, consequently they lapse into a condition even worse than before their education, because their enlightenment renders them more keenly sensitive to their affliction. But I am thankful there are so many who have courage to rise above all these obstacles, and, with a heroism known only to those who have passed through the crucible, to become noble men and women. Another question so often arising is, can the blind distinguish colors by the sense of feeling? To this my invariable answer has been, "I believe it to be an impossibility." Many insist upon the point that it is not only possible, but that they can substantiate it as a fact--having seen it with their own eyes. This I have, of course, no right to dispute, but in illustration of the point in question, and in proof that one can be mistaken therein, I will cite an incident that occurred in the Baltimore Institution. Three gentlemen visitors to that place having completed their inspection, were about taking leave, when they were attracted by "little Joe," a bright, intelligent boy pupil, and immediately asked him if he could distinguish colors in the above-mentioned way. The quick-witted little fellow assumed the serene dignity of a sage and calmly answered, "Of course I can," whereupon the gentlemen stood in a row and offered Joe the tempting bait of one dollar if he would tell each one the color of his pants. Two of them were dressed in broad cloth, and the other in a coarse, grey suit. The boy naturally inferred that the smooth, textured fabric was broad cloth, and would most probably be black, and being aware of the then prevailing style of grey business-suits, he, with great ease, hit the truth exactly. They freely gave the promised dollar, and left fully satisfied that he did it by the sense of touch. As soon as the door was closed, the mischievous urchin exclaimed, "Golly, boys, suppose I hadn't guessed right?" Upon this matter I can only say in conclusion, that I have met during my life many blind persons, and have made this question an especial study, while not one instance has come under my observation in which the blind could distinguish colors by touch. By a systematic method of arrangement, association, etc, as well as through a remarkable recollection of certain distinguishing characteristics in objects around us, we attain to that which serves us much the same purpose as distinction of color. Indeed, in this, as in all things, the blind must, of necessity, be very methodical in everything they undertake to do. I sincerely hope that in my heterogeneous and apparently random remarks, I may have uttered some word of comfort to the blind, some hint which may truly aid them, some sentiment which may sustain, for my heart goes out to them in the sympathy of a common affliction. "SIGHT OF THE BLIND." Since closing my preceding article I have received from the author, who is one of the most distinguished blind writers, an essay Which I take great pleasure in introducing below, not only because of its eminent source, but from its confirmation of some of the points I have attempted to illustrate, and which, together with many original and suggestive thoughts, are given with the plenitude and the power of eloquent rendition. "HOW DO THE BLIND SEE?" BY L.V. HALL. This may be regarded by some as a paradoxical question; and yet it is not, if we accept the word see, in its fullest and broadest sense. Webster defines the verb see, as follows: "To perceive by mental vision; to form an adequate conception of; to discern; to distinguish; to understand; to comprehend." True, we do not see through the same medium that you do, who have perfect organs of sight, but we certainly perceive and comprehend the relation and condition of things about us. The Creator has so wisely made, and beautifully adjusted the external organs of sense, one to another, and each to all, that when one is lacking the others are made able, by greater exercise, to perform the functions of the missing one. For example, if one loses his hearing, sight is rendered keener, and the nerves acquire a sensitiveness almost painful. Dr. Kitto, who was deaf from twelve years of age, speaks of this peculiar sensitiveness as follows: "The drawing of furniture, as tables or chairs, over the floor, above or below me, the shutting of doors, and the feet of children at play, distress me far more than the same cause would do if I were in actual possession of my hearing. "By being unattended by any circumstances or preliminaries, they startle dreadfully; and by the vibration being diffused from the feet over the whole body, they shake the whole nervous system in a way which even long use has not enabled me to bear." In the same interesting article on percussion, he says: "A few days since, when I was seated with the back of my chair facing a chiffonier, the door of this receptacle was opened by some one, and swung back so as to touch my hair. The touch could not but have been slight, but to me the concussion was dreadful, and almost made me scream with the surprise and pain; the sensation being very similar to that which a heavy person feels on touching the ground, when he has jumped from a higher place than he ought. Even this concussion, to me so violent and distressing, had not been noticed by any one in the room but myself." This physiological phenomenon is analagous to the sensation experienced by the blind on approaching any tall or broad object. We feel their presence when we are several yards from them. I have sometimes been startled by the sudden impression produced by a lamp-post, or tree when in fact it was a yard or more from me. The sensation is somewhat like receiving a smart blow in the face. I am frequently aware of passing a building while riding along a country road, and the proximity of trees, fences and other objects is quite perceptible. This is not a latent sense, developed by circumstances, as some have supposed, but a wonderful acuteness of the nerves of the face, and more particularly of the nerves of the eye-lids. These phenomena may, I think, be explained in this way. When one of the superior senses is absent, the perceptive force that has watched at the eye, or listened at the ear, is now transferred to other nerves of sensation. In other words, a deaf person is all eyes, and extremely alive to tangible percussions, as will be seen in the case of Dr. Kitto and others. The blind are all ears and fingers, and certain of the inferior animals are all ears and heels; I am not sure but there is some neck in both cases. Since it has been shown that new perceptions and conditions have been developed in the absence of one or more of the superior senses, that the deaf are so keenly cognizant of vibration or jar, which is the father of sound; that the blind can feel the presence of objects at short distances, which is analogous to sight, it should not be thought strange that we make such frequent use of the word _see_, or that the deaf should make use of the word _hear_, and that these words are not without significance or import. Besides this there is a mental perception (doubtless through a magnetic medium,) of the presence or nearness of other minds. This accords with the experience of many persons. I have frequently entered rooms that I supposed to be unoccupied, judging from the silence that reigned, but on taking an inventory of my feelings I found a consciousness of some one's presence, and this I have done when not the slightest sound aroused my suspicions. A little incident that occurred while I was a teacher in the New York Institution for the Blind will, perhaps, better illustrate this point. I called one evening at the matron's room to ask her to read a letter which had just been handed me. Supposing it to be a confidential one, and wishing to make sure that no one else was in the room, I enquired of the matron if she was alone. On receiving an affirmative answer, I handed her the letter, requesting her to read it. But, feeling a consciousness that some other mind was present--a strange mind, with which I had no sympathy--I walked round to the other end of the table and placed my hand on a lady's shoulder, remarking to the matron that I felt sure there was some one in the room beside herself, and asked that the letter might be returned to me unopened. From the long experience of this perception, or intuition, has grown the old adage, "The devil is always near at hand when you are talking about him." I am not sure that this magnetic condition is more largely developed in us than in those who see, but I am led to think it is for this reason, eyes are of paramount importance to those who have them, and we who have them not search for other media of communication. Mental presence is either inspiring and assuring, or depressing and embarrassing. I have observed that when in the presence of some people I have felt comfortable and assured, while in the presence of others I have felt diffident and uneasy, I allude here to persons with whom I had no previous acquaintance. Minds are felt in a ratio proportionate to their will-power. Shallow, conceited minds are not magnetic. I have been told by blind preachers, public lecturers and concert singers, that they always feel the difference between an intelligent and appreciative audience and one made up of coarse and uncultured people, and this consciousness they have felt before any demonstrations of applause or disapprobation were made. I have had many opportunities to experiment on my own feelings in relation to this magnetic influence or mental recognition. I was a concert singer in my younger days and could always tell whether I was singing to a large or small house, and whether my audience was in sympathy with me or not. If it is argued that I gained this knowledge through the ear, and not through the magnetic medium that I suppose to exist, I will add other experiences that will be more convincing to the reader. In pursuing my business as itinerant book-seller for many years, I have frequently called at offices when their occupants were out, and on entering have often said to my guide, "Oh, there is no one here, let us go, and call again." On the other hand I have often been conscious when entering a room that there was not only one mind but several minds present. If I should be asked to describe this consciousness, or mental recognition, I should not know what language to employ. These are some of the compensations which the blind receive for the great loss they have sustained. The sense of smell is ranked as the least important of all the senses, yet it is of great value to the blind. Through this avenue to the mind come many pleasurable sensations. By it we are aided in the selection of our food, in choosing ripe and healthful fruits, in detecting decomposition, dirt and filth, and in ascertaining much that eyes discover to those who have them. Without it flowers would have no attraction for us, and life would lack many of its pleasures. At the risk of being classed among dogs and vultures. I acknowledge that I am often guided by my olfactories in doing things that seem so very unaccountable to my friends. In passing along the business streets my attention is continually attracted by the odors that issue from stores, shops, saloons, etc., and these peculiar smells often direct me to the very place I wish to find. From groceries come the odors of spices, fish, soaps, etc. From clothing and dry goods stores the smell of dye-stuffs. From drugs and medicines, the combined odor of many thousand volatile substances, such as perfumes, paints, and oils, asafaoetida, etc. From shoe stores comes the smell of leather; and from books and stationery the smell of printer's ink. Hotels, saloons and liquor stores, emit that unmistakable odor of alcohol, the prince of poisons. To me the smell of alcohol, wines, etc., has always, since my earliest recollection, been grateful and fascinating; and had I cultivated an appetite for strong drink, it would be as difficult for me to pass a liquor saloon as for a man whose eyes are tempted by a magnificent display of mirrors and bottles. I have often been made aware of open cellar doors by a damp, musty smell that commonly proceeds from underground rooms, and have, I think, been saved from falling by this odd warning. I should have fallen, however, only a few days ago, into one of these yawning horrors had it not been for my ever watchful wife who was providentially near and called to me in time to save me from injury. Some workmen were laying a patch of side-walk on Main street, in the town in which I reside, and had opened a cellar-way near which some of them were at work, but did not warn me, doubtless because they did not see me, for workmen are always very kind to me. I am guided and governed more by the ear, however, than by either of the other organs of sense. If I wish to cross the street it tells me when teams are coming, how far they are away, at what rate of speed they are traveling, and when it will be safe to cross. If I find a group of men conversing, it tells me who they are. If I wish to enter a store, or any place, it tells me where the door is, if open, by the sounds that issue therefrom, but in this I have sometimes been misled by going to an open window, which always makes me feel awkward. Sound to me is as important as light is to the seeing, and brings to the mind a great many facts that are gathered through the eyes when sight is made the prime sense. Much of my information, however, is received through the fingers. They are properly the organs of touch. Although this sense is distributed over the whole body, even to the mucous membrane that lines the mouth and covers the tongue. When the finger's ends have been hardened by labor, or from any cause, the lips and tongue are the most sensitive, and are often used in threading needles, stringing beads, etc, very innocent uses surely to put the tongue to. This sense of touch is of _necessity_ cultivated by the blind until it often reaches a state of perfection seldom, if ever, found in the seeing. Of course its development is gradual, as is the growth of all the faculties. When I was quite a little child, and my fingers were soft, I could readily distinguish all the variety of flowers that grew in my sister's flower garden, and could call them by name. From touch I knew all the common fruits, from the peach with its velvet skin, to the strawberry in the meadow, for which I used to search diligently with my fingers, and sometimes find, as I remember, thistles, which were never quite to my taste. One thing among my childish sports and amusements, for they were limited, always gave great pleasure; and does even now. I loved to play along the brook or lake shore, to feel for smooth and odd shaped stones, for pretty shells, etc. Their beauty to me existed only in the great variety of shapes they presented, and in their smooth, pearly surfaces, as they never suggested to my mind any idea of color. Winter afforded me few opportunities for cultivating my love for the beautiful. Summer was my heaven, with its singing birds, its tinkling brooks and its fresh and delicious fruits. I took great pleasure in examining, with my fingers, flowers, leaves and grasses, because their great variety of shape and texture fed an innate longing after something that I could not then comprehend. When but an infant, I am told nothing amused me so well as a branch of green leaves. My early boyhood was spent in rambling through the woods, hunting nuts, squirrels, chipmunks, etc., with other boys of my own age, in climbing trees, digging for wood-chucks, skating, coasting, and in performing all the feats common to boyhood, such as standing on my head, hopping, jumping, whistling, shouting, &c. I shall regret to have this page come under the eyes of my boys, for in noisy mischief they already exceed my most sanguine expectations, and need not a record of their father's boisterous childhood to encourage them. This kind of life, however, has fitted me to enter upon a systematic course of study, which I did at the age of sixteen. I was received as a pupil of the New York Institution for the Blind in 1844. I entered in a good, healthy condition of body and mind. Found there boys and girls like myself, without sight, yet earnestly engaged in pursuing the various branches of English education. Many of them were like myself, full of life, fond of fun and mischief. Many laughable incidents and anecdotes characteristic of such an institution are fresh in my memory, which, I should be pleased to relate, did they illustrate the subject in hand. Here I found sight, which I had always supposed so necessary, somewhat at a discount. I discovered that books, slates, maps, globes, diagrams, &c., could be seen through the fingers, and that children could learn quite as rapidly in this way as with sight. I was not long, either, in discovering that the older pupils and graduates were intelligent, accomplished and refined; that they were treated more as equals by the officers, and that they were trotted out to show off the merits of the institution, while we young blockheads were kept in the background. This, I think, did much toward inspiring me with ambition. My progress at first was slow, having to learn how to use the appliances. My fingers must be trained, my memory disciplined and my habits of inattention corrected. No effort was made, however, to take the mirthfulness out of me, and I doubt if anything could have succeeded in this. My first introduction to tangible literature was in placing my hand on a page of the Old Testament in embossed print. At first I could feel nothing like letters or any regular characters, only a roughness as though the paper had been badly wrinkled. A card was then placed in my hand on which the alphabet was printed in very large type, and my attention called to each letter. My fingers, then soft and supple, were not long in tracing the outlines of each character, and, my memory being naturally retentive, I was soon able to distinguish each letter, and give its name as my finger was placed on it. Another card was then given me in smaller type, which I mastered in the same way, and so on till I could read our smallest print. I have been thus minute in describing the rudimentary process of finger training, that my readers may understand how it is possible for the fingers to be made useful to the blind. To show how quick is the perception through this avenue to the mind, it should be known that we cannot feel a whole word at once, but a single letter. And yet some of us are able to read more than a hundred words per minute, and to trace on raised maps boundary lines, rivers, mountain chains, lakes, straits, gulfs, bays, to find the location of towns, islands, &c. It would seem that the fingers are capable of grasping almost everything that the eye embraces, though of course more slowly, and from the wonderful acuteness of which they are susceptible has grown the popular impression that the blind can feel colors. I have been asked this question many thousand times, and have invariably replied that we can no more feel colors than the deaf can see sounds or the dumb sing psalms. I am aware that it is stated by some eminent writers that the sense of touch in some persons has reached this perfection, but I have many reasons to doubt it. I have no personal object in contradicting this statement, other than to correct a popular error. Should be glad if it were true. It has been accounted for by scientific men upon this hypothesis: that colors differ in temperature, that red is warmer than yellow, and yellow warmer than green, and so on through the spectrum. That violet is a cold color as its rays are less refracted, that these differences are appreciable to delicate fingers. I have tried many experiments both with my own fingers and with persons at our several institutions, who, like myself, were born without sight, and, have never yet found one who could form the faintest idea of colors from impressions received through the fingers. Indeed there is nothing in tangible qualities that suggests color, except differences in texture. We may feel that a piece of broad-cloth has a harsh texture, and call it black, or a soft texture, and call it drab or brown. In this we may guess right, for it is only a guess after all. Wool buyers and dealers in cloth judge frequently of their quality by touch; and it is true that we who are without sight come to be very expert in judging of the quality of cloths, furs, &c. But, to one who has never seen light, there is no suggestion of color through finger perception. Between sound and color there is a much closer analogy traceable, as both are the result of vibration. The same language is used to express the qualities of each. We talk of harmony in sounds and harmony in colors, of lights and shades, of chromatics, blending, softness, sweetness, harshness, high, low, bright, dull, &c. May not a grand anthem or chorus be to the mind of one who has never seen the light, what a fine picture is to one who has never heard sounds. I should not be surprised to hear that some blind Yankee or Frenchman has invented a telephone through which we can hear in the rippling brooks and bubbling fountains the color of their waters, in the song of birds the gorgeous tints of their plumage, and in the distant roar of Niagara, the mighty grandeur of its scenery. To an imaginative mind a well tuned, well voiced organ may be made to represent all the colors of the rainbow, from the faintest violet of the piccolo to the darkest crimson of the sub-bass. Some blind person on being asked what he supposed red to be like, answered "Like the sound of a trumpet." He might have said "Like a flame of fire." I once asked a blind boy, who had never seen light, if he could imagine a house on fire and how he supposed it would look. He answered, "If it was a big fire it would look like a thousand trumpets all blowing in a different key." I then asked him what a picture is like. "Like anything in _shape_ you may wish to paint," he said, "but in color (if it is a fine picture) like one of Mozart's grand symphonies." I have many times asked my blind lady friends how they knew in what way to arrange their colors so as to make their fancy work look tasty and attractive. How they knew what colors blended and what were discordant, and I have often received this answer: "By associating the names of the seven primary colors with the seven sounds of the diatonic scale, placing red as No. 1 or key note, orange next, yellow next, then green, and so on to violet. Thus red will not blend with orange, being the first and second of the scale, but red and yellow harmonize better, being third in the scale, red and green still better, and so on to red and deep violet, which are sevenths in the scale and do not harmonize. Thus we get the tetrachord red, yellow, blue and violet, which may be represented by the flat seventh of the chord C." But I leave this theory for some one to elaborate or refute, who has seen color, and return to my institution life. The ear and voice are also trained at these schools for the blind, and music is made one of the chief arts. Piano tuning is also taught in a practical way. If this business is not taught in all the institutions, it ought to be, for it comes fairly within the scope of our capabilities. And I will here say for the benefit of my brothers in the dark that I have been very successful as a piano tuner, and the business is a practical one for the blind. Any one with a good ear may learn to tune well, but no one should undertake to repair so delicate a piece of machinery as a piano action without long experience, mechanical ingenuity, great caution and good judgment, having had no opportunity to acquire the requisite skill. It was not my intention at the outset to write a sketch of my own life, but to demonstrate by my own experience that the inferior senses may be made to perform many of the offices of sight. The eyes have some functions, however, which the ears and fingers cannot perform. For example, if a piece of silk or woolen goods be handed me for examination the nerves of my fingers will tell me whether it is fine or coarse, whether it has a harsh or soft texture, whether it is highly finished or rough and uneven, but they bring me no intelligence of color. I may pronounce the goods beautiful, because I find in it certain qualities that address themselves to my taste, but it is not beauty addressed to the eye. Light and color, to one who has never seen, is as inconceivable as music to the deaf. We may get some faint idea of what light is as a medium of communication, or why color pleases the eye as qualities of texture please the touch, but the conception is vague and unsatisfactory. I have often had the remark made to me, "Well, if you have never seen, it is not so bad after all, you have less desire to see." This, I think, is a mistake and a poor consolation. Has the man who has never visited the great Niagara cataract, but has many times heard and read of its wonders, less desire to see it than one who has witnessed those grand displays of God's power in the flood? Has the boy who loves to read of travels and strange adventures less desire to see the glaciers of the Alps, the skies of Italy or the jungles of Southern Africa, than the traveler who described them? However well we may see with our mental vision, however well suited to our taste may be our surroundings, however pleasant may be our family relations, and however kind may be our companions, we cannot help that irrepressible desire to know what there is about light and color, about the indescribable beauty of a sunset, the splendor of an evening sky, the glory of a cloudless day, and the awful grandeur of a storm. There is yet one thing we greatly desire to know, which the fingers cannot grasp. We are told in poetry and romance that the human face divine is the index of the spirit. That its ever changing lines express every mood of the mind and every emotion of the soul, from a smile of ineffable beauty to a midnight frown, from the sunshine of hope, and joy, and gladness, to clouds of wrath and hatred. That the spirit looks out through the eye and melts you with a beam of tenderness, or pierces your heart with a flash of electric love, or charms you by revealing in its crystal depths the pearl of purity, or transfixes you with a glance of displeasure. Is all this talk about sunlit faces and starlit eyes, fine sentiment only, or does the face really express feeling as unmistakably as we hear it in voices? To show that the deaf have as great a desire to hear the music of the human voice as we to see the language of the face, I quote from Dr. Kitto the following touching passages of personal history: "Is there anything on earth so engaging to a parent as to catch the first lispings of his infant's tongue, or so interesting as to listen to its dear prattle, and trace its gradual mastery of speech? If there be any one thing arising out of my condition, which, more than another, fills my heart with grief, it is _this_: it is to _see_ their blessed lips in motion and to _hear_ them not, and to witness others moved to smiles and kisses by the sweet peculiarities of infantile speech which are incommunicable to me, and which pass by me like the idle wind." Although there are but few experiments in common between the deaf and the blind, I am able to sympathize fully with this eminent deaf author in the intense desire he feels to hear the sweet voices of his children. There is no other object this side of heaven I so ardently wish to see as the faces of my family. A feeling sometimes comes over me akin, I fancy, to the impotent rage of a caged lion, who vainly tries to break his prison bars and gain his liberty. The moral certainty that I must finally leave this world of beauty without having enjoyed many of its highest blessings and purest delights often oppresses--so oppresses me, that I can only find relief in prayer for grace to say--"Thy will be done, O God." I hear the merry voices of my children, know their step, figure, contour of their heads and faces, and in my day dreams I see them around me, full of life and health, fun and frolic, and I know their little hearts are full of love for me; I know, too, God has given them to me as some compensation for other blessings he has withheld. Let me trust, then, in His great mercy, that in the far future I may see the faces of my dear ones in the light of eternity; of her who gave me birth, but whose fond look of affection and yearning tenderness I was never able to return; and the face of her who is now to me even more than a mother, who helps me to bear my many burdens with Christian patience and fidelity. Then, if I am permitted to behold the glorified face of Him who hath redeemed us, I shall rejoice that I have lived and suffered, and wept and wept, and prayed that I might dwell with Him forever. INVOCATION TO LIGHT. BY MRS. HELEN ALDRICH DE KROYFT. Oh, holy light! thou art old as the look of God and eternal as God. The archangels were rocked in thy lap, and their infant smiles were brightened by thee! Creation is in thy memory. By thy touch the throne of Jehovah was set, and thy hand burnished the myriad stars that glitter in His crown. Worlds, new from His omnipotent hand, were sprinkled with beams from thy baptismal font. At thy golden urn pale Luna comes to fill her silver horn, and rounding thereat Saturn bathes his sky girt rings, Jupiter lights his waning moons, and Venus dips her queenly robes anew. Thy fountains are shoreless as the ocean of heavenly love; thy centre is everywhere, and thy boundary no power has marked. Thy beams gild the illimitable fields of space, and gladden the farthest verge of the universe. The glories of the Seventh Heaven are open to thy gaze, and thy glare is felt in the woes of the lowest Erebus. The sealed books of heaven by thee are read, and thine eyes like the Infinite can pierce the dark veil of the future, and glance backward through the mystic cycle of the past. Thy touch gives the lily its whiteness, the rose its tint, and thy kindling ray makes the diamond's light. Thy beams are mighty as the power that binds the spheres. Thou canst change the sleety winds to soothing zephyrs, and thou canst melt the icy mountains of the poles to gentle rains and dewy vapors. The granite rocks of the hills are upturned by thee, volcanoes burst, islands sink and rise, rivers roll and oceans swell at thy look of command. And oh! thou monarch of the skies, bend now thy bow of millioned arrows, and pierce, if thou canst, this darkness that thrice twelve moons has bound me. Burst now thy emerald gates, O Morn, and let thy dawnings come! Mine eyes roll in vain to find thee, and my soul is weary of this interminable gloom. The past comes back robed in a pall which makes all things dark. The present blotted out, and the future but a rayless, hopeless, loveless night of years, my heart is but the tomb of blighted hopes, and all the misery of feelings unemployed has settled on me. I am misfortune's child and sorrow long since marked me for her own. IS IT MORE TO LOSE THE EYES THAN THE EARS? (From Mrs. De Kroyft's forthcoming work, entitled "My Soul and I.") Ah no! dark and empty and lonely as the world may be to us, no intelligent blind person could be found who would exchange hearing, and its attendant gift of speech, for a pair of the brightest eyes in the world; while, for myself, I have sometimes even wondered if, after all, it be, in the strictest sense of the word, a misfortune _not to see_. All of our other senses are certainly not only immeasurably quickened, but is not our whole nature improved, and our immortal being greatly elevated through this darkest of human privations? Just imagine for a moment a touch like Cynthia Bullock's, so exquisite as to feel with ease the notes, lines and spaces of ordinary printed music; then add to that a hearing that almost notes the budding of the flowers, and you will see how little one must possibly lack, even in the scale of pleasurable existence, while perception in us becomes verily _a new sense_. Indeed, what shade of thought or feeling ever escapes us? Almost quicker than a thing has been uttered we have felt or perceived it. What marvelous power, too, memory comes to possess, and how tenaciously she clings to everything, often astonishing even to ourselves; while imagination, that loftiest and most winged attribute of the soul, not only becomes more fleet, but literally turns creator, reproducing before our spirit eyes not only all that we have lost, clothed in the beautiful ideal, but unbars the gates to every new field of intellectual research, often enabling us to compete even more than successfully with those who see. Alas! if there could be only a seat of learning for the blind, with all its lessons oral or in the form of lectures, as at most of the German Universities, what could we not achieve? But, as it is, enough renowned have arisen from our ranks to prove that, while blindness fetters the hands and the feet, it verily adds wings to _thought_. Indeed, the world has but one Homer, who sits forever shrouded in darkness, _the veiled god_ and father of song; and but one Milton, who gave to the world its "Paradise Lost" and its "Paradise Regained," while he bequeathed to the blind of all ages the glory and the beacon light of his name. EDUCATION OF THE BLIND. A brief description of the methods employed in their literary, artistic and industrial education. I should not consider this work finished without a chapter on the mode of educating those who have been so unfortunate as to be deprived of the readiest medium through which education is imparted--the sight. The systems, although some of them are in use in nearly every State in the Union, are very little understood, and are always inquired into with every evidence of interest by visitors to the institutions, where they often express quite as much surprise as gratification at what they see. I have therefore, in the following, endeavored to give as full a description as possible of the various methods and appliances employed to convey through the sense of feeling, information to which our eyes are closed. On entering the schools the children are generally wholly uneducated, and have first to be taught the form and value of letters. To effect this the letters are raised, and the pupil learns their form by passing the fingers over them till their forms, names and their use are fully understood. With some this is a long and tedious task, but others master it in a short time. I mastered the alphabet in one day, but I was not a child and had a mind sharpened by experience. By constant exercise the sense of feeling becomes so acute that very slight differences of form are readily detected, and reading by the touch becomes an easily mastered art. Having thus the key of knowledge the subsequent progress of the student is in his own hands, and, to the credit of the afflicted, it must be said it is generally very rapid, one reason for which is that loss of sight shuts off one fruitful source of distraction, and the mind is more easily concentrated. Another reason is that the necessity for education is generally appreciated, and the student is eager to acquire it. The form and use of figures is taught in a similar manner, but the teaching of arithmetic is largely mental, on account of the difficulty of producing raised figures with sufficient rapidity, and the study of higher mathematics is pursued even more strictly from oral teaching. The art of writing, which, to those not acquainted with the educating of the blind, is considered the most difficult task, becomes comparatively easy. It is a two-fold art, including the art of writing for blind readers and the ordinary Roman script. Of the "blind writing" there are several systems, but in this I shall be content to describe but two--the pin type and the "New York Point System." The first consists of movable types, the letters on which are formed of pin points, and with which the writer impresses the paper one letter at a time, producing the letter raised on the opposite side of the paper, which, on being reversed, may be read with eye or fingers. The point system is the arrangement and combination of six dots on two lines. Those on the upper line are numbered 1, 3 and 5, and those on the lower 2, 4 and 6. These are made within spaces about three-sixteenths of an inch square each, by a styles which resembles a small, dull awl or centre punch. To prevent the dots being confused the writer uses a writing board, to which the paper is clamped by a metallic guide-rule perforated with two or more rows of these squares. The pupils make these punctured letters with great precision and rapidity, and frequently conduct their correspondence with their friends by that means, giving them the alphabet and key by which to learn to read them. The writing of ordinary script is performed with more difficulty. A grooved pasteboard is used for the purpose, the grooves being of the width of the smaller letters. The letters extending above or below the line are gauged by the ridge. The right hand is followed close by the left, which guards the written lines from a second tracing of the pencil, and marks the spaces. By these methods correspondence is maintained between the blind and their distant friends, and it is even possible for a blind merchant to keep his own books if necessary. In writing the common script the pencil is always used, the pen never. Care has to be taken to keep the pencil pointed, or much care and labor may be lost. An incident which Mr. Loughery, founder of the Maryland Institution, used to relate of himself, shows how necessary it is to observe great care in this matter. When a student he wrote a long, gossipy letter to a friend, and in a short time was surprised, and for the time greatly annoyed, at receiving a reply asking him if he had gone mad. It enclosed his own letter, and on examination of it the two words "Dear Ed." were found to be its sole contents. In his absorbed condition of mind he had not noticed the breaking of his pencil, and had proceeded with his writing, as the scratched paper, on which the traces of the wood of the pencil were visible, but not legible, indicated. The most interesting things seen in an Institution for the Blind are the apparatus for teaching geography, philosophy and physiology. For geography miniature continents, states, hemispheres, etc., are used, in which, the political divisions, the physical conformation and characteristics, the rivers, lakes, seas, etc., etc., are reproduced as nearly as possible. The boundaries are described by rows of raised dots, the capital cities by studs of peculiar shape, the larger cities by studs different in size or shape, the rivers by grooves in the surface, deserts by spaces being sanded on the surface, the lakes, seas, etc., by depressions, and the islands by spots elevated above the seas' surface. Mountain ranges are shown by raised models or miniature mountains, and that volcanoes may be fully understood, separate models of these and of other remarkable formations are used, that the student, by a thorough manual examination, may get a correct knowledge of them. In nearly every school I have visited there were maps, the sub-divisions of which consisted of movable blocks. Supported like a table, these maps would be studied by the pupils taking out the blocks and returning them to their places as they learned their names, etc. It is no uncommon thing to see a pupil throw these blocks into a confused heap, mix them all up, and, then picking them up one by one, put each in its place with as much accuracy as the most accomplished pianist will strike each key in a simple march or polka. The philosophical apparatus consists of miniature machinery: the spring, the simple and compound lever, the wheel, the cog, the cam, etc., even to the miniature engine are brought into use, and the pupils examine them by themselves, and in their various applications and relations to each other. In teaching those who never could see great difficulty is experienced in conveying the nature and properties of gases, vapors, etc., but with those who have any recollection of what they have seen the task is comparatively easy. Where the apparatus is possessed the teaching of physiology and natural history are comparatively easy, the pupil handling and examining skeletons, skulls and models of the various parts of the human system, learning their various offices, etc., but many schools do not possess them, while others have fine collections including busts of eminent or notorious personages, zoological collections, plaster models, etc., by which the loss of sight is largely compensated for. Music is taught by raised notes until the rudiments are mastered. It forms a great part of the course in all the institutions, and is cultivated with great assiduity. When the rudiments have been mastered and the pupil is familiar with the instrument, the music is read to them, the notes indicated by names and value, and they memorize the music. So thoroughly do many of the blind master the art that several are now, within my knowledge, successful teachers of the art to large numbers of seeing pupils. On the other hand much valuable time is wasted in the effort to teach music to those who have no talent for it, and whose time might be more profitably employed in the pursuit of other studies. In the education of the blind the greatest care is given to the cultivation and strengthening of the memory and the success that is met with is truly marvelous, for the amount and variety of knowledge with which some minds have been stored is to many almost incredible. The industrial education of the blind is perhaps the most important of all, and all the institutions are provided with workshops, in which the inmates learn some useful mechanical or domestic art. The female pupils are taught to make all kinds of ornamental bead-work, to crochet and knit woolen and worsted goods, to sew by hand and with machines, and some of them acquire surprising skill, though my own experience does not give me a high opinion of the efficacy of attempting to teach sewing, so very few ever practice it after leaving school, though I have found it convenient to sew on a button or repair a rent on occasion. Sewing by the blind, though it may surprise the beholder for the skill acquired under difficulties, will seldom claim their admiration for its own merit. I have more faith in the efficiency of the industrial education of the boys and men, because, in the course of my travels, I have found numbers of them prospering in the pursuit of the trades learned in the institutions, and some of them carrying on quite extensive operations. Boys are taught to make brooms, brushes, cane seats for chairs, mattresses, door mats, to weave carpets and do many other forms of useful work. It looks strange to be shown a brush in which black and colored bristles are formed into lines of beauty--initials, flowers, etc., and to be told that a blind man made it. It looks like a miracle, but when you learn that the forms were traced on the block by cutting grooves in its surface to form the figures, and that the black bristles were kept in a round box, and white ones in a square box, near the maker's hand, the mystery disappears. Connected with the Philadelphia Institution are extensive manufactories, in which large numbers of workmen are employed. They are the largest in the United States that are operated almost exclusively by the blind. These shops enable numbers of men to support themselves and their families in decency and comfort. The great interest manifested in the education and training of the blind, by thousands of noble people and earnest workers throughout the country, deserves the gratitude of not only those who suffer the great deprivation, but of the whole people; for the benefits they have conferred on us by educating and rendering us useful and independent, rank in the scale of beneficence next to giving us sight. POEMS BY THE BLIND. I take the liberty of introducing a few poems by blind authors, feeling that they will be appreciated by the public. Poetry seems to possess peculiar charms for blind people, who, deprived of material sight, seem to love to revel in the beautiful visions presented by the imagination. Among blind poets and rhymesters there are, of course, as many different grades of merit as among the more favored writers, but the proportion of doggerel writers is fortunately much smaller among the blind, and they cannot so readily inflict their scribbling in such volume on a patient public. The poems here presented are selected from among a number of the best productions of the best writers. LUCY A. LITTLE. I take great pleasure in introducing into these leaves the following simple poem from the pen of Miss Lucy A. Little, a young blind girl, toward whom I have been drawn by deep sympathy and affection. She was educated in the Wisconsin Institution for the Blind, where she graduated with high honor. She possesses great personal attractions and much intrinsic merit, being the household pet in the home of her grand-parents; and, as the blind have missions, it seems to have been especially hers to minister to those who regard her with doting fondness, and to whom she is a bright prismatic ray, making the shortening path of the old people radiant with, its light. A JUNE MORNING. Early one morn in leafy June, When brooks and birds were all in tune, A maiden left her quiet home In meadows and in fields to roam. She wandered on, in cheerful mood, Through verdant fields and leafy wood. At length she paused to rest awhile Upon a little rustic stile. She made a pretty picture there, With her bright, curling, golden hair, And dress of white, and eyes of blue, And ribbons of the self-same hue. And while she sat absorbed in thought, A form approached. She heeded not Until a hand was gently laid Upon the shoulders of the maid. Then, looking up in sweet surprise, She saw a pair of jet-black eyes, A perfect form of manly grace, A handsome, open, honest face. Then said the maid, in voice so clear: "How did you know that I was here?" Said he: "I sought you at your home, They told me you had hither come, And so, I came, this bright June day, To say what I've so longed to say. When first we met in by-gone days, You charmed me with your winning ways. Since then the time has quickly flown, Each day to me you've dearer grown, And you can brighten all my life If you will but become my wife." She raised her eyes unto his own, And in their depths a new light shone, While in a voice so soft and low She said: "I _will_; it shall be so." And then they homeward took their way, While birds were singing sweet and gay, Now oft they bless that day in June When brooks and birds were all atune. GOLD WORSHIPPERS. BY L.V. HALL. Within a faded volume, dim and old, I find this musty maxim tersely given: "The magic key to human hearts is gold, But love unlocks the crystal gates of heaven." Our homes are not so happy as of old, Our hearts are not so merry as of yore, We find that nought can purchase love but gold, That virtue begs a pittance at the door. There was a time when Beauty bore the sway; There was a time when Wit the world controlled; There was a time when Valor won the day; But now the noble knight that wins, is Gold. The ancient Ghebers worshipped light and fire; The Brahmins bowed to gods of wood and stone; But now, 'neath marble dome and gilded spire, The deity adored is gold alone. It overlays the altar and the cross; It dignifies the monarch and the clown; The wealth of moral worth is counted dross; The million miser wears the golden crown. 'Tis time this mad idolatry should cease; 'Tis time her prophets and her priests were slain; Let earth do homage to the Prince of Peace, And the reign of gold shall be the golden reign. The Christ came not with pomp and princely show; His followers were lowly and despised; He courted not the high, nor shunned the low; A very God in human flesh disguised. He brought a marvelous message from above: A gift of grace and pardon from the King. He claimed no tithe or tribute but of love-- A penitent and contrite heart to bring. He banished brokers from the house of prayer; He raised the dead and made the dumb to speak; Unsealed the blinded eye, unstopped the ear; He fed the poor and lifted up the weak. The way to life, He said, is plain and straight, It leads to joy, and peace, and heavenly light The way to death is through a golden gate And broad the way that leads to endless night. Shall we accept the sacrifice he made And enter in the Shepherd's sheltering fold? Or, like the Judas who his Lord betrayed, Sell soul and hope of Heaven for miser's gold? Say, which is best, true piety or gold? This metal worship or the living God? Ye cannot have them both, so we are told, See to it then which pathway shall be trod. Array your idol in his robes of state! Set up his image on his golden throne! Throw open wide the temple's gilded gate, And thus proclaim that gold is God alone! Or else array yourselves in plain attire; Set up the love of Christ in every heart Let each affection feel its fervent fire, And in this money-worship bear no part. Now make your choice between your gold and heaven; Buy all the sinful pleasures wealth can bring; Increase them through the years to mortals given And die, at last--a beggar--not a king. Yes, make your choice between your gold and heaven; Find peace and pardon in a Saviour's blood; Freely bestow what, free to you, is given, And meet, at last, the welcoming smile of God. THE DOUBLE NIGHT. BY MORRISON HEADY, Of the Kentucky Institution for the Blind. _To the shades of Milton and Beethoven_. "Silence and Darkness, solemn sisters, twins From ancient Night, who nursed the tender thought To reason, and on reason build resolve-- That column--of true majesty in man-- Assist me--I will thank you in the grave."-- _Night Thoughts_. DARKNESS. Go, bring the harp that once with dirges thrilled, But now hangs hushed in leaden slumbers, Save when the faltering hand untimely chilled Steals o'er its chords in broken numbers. It hangs in halls where shades of sorrow dwell, Where echoless Silence tolls the passing bell, Where shadowless Darkness weaves the shrouding spell Of parting joys and parting years. Go, bring it me, sweet friend, and ere we part, A lay I'll frame, so sad 'twill wring thy heart Of all its pity, all its tears As fitful shadows round me gather fast, And solemn watch my thoughts are holding, Comes Memory, Panoramist of the Past. The rising morn of life unfolding, Now fade from view all living toil and strife; Time past is now my present; death, my life; All that exists is obsolete; While o'er my soul there steals the pensive glow Of sainted joys that young years only know, And past scenes, looming dimly, rise and throw Their lengthening shadows at my feet. I see a morn domed in by pictured skies; The dew is on its budding pleasures, The gladsome, early, sunlight on it lies, And to it from this dark my pent soul flies, As misers nightly to their treasures. And, as I look, I see a glittering train, In airy throng, across the dreamlit plain, Come dancing, dancing from the tomb; Flitting in phantom silence on my sight; In silence, yet all beautiful and bright, The ghosts of joy, and hope, and bloom. But passed me by; their lines of fading light Tell of decay, of youth's and beauty's blight; Then, like spent meteors shimmering through the night, The vision melts in closing gloom. Another day in sable vesture clad, All drear with new blown pleasures blighted, Comes blindly groping through the twilight sad, As one in moonless mists benighted. O! Day unhappy! could oblivion roll Its slumberous billows o'er my shrinking soul, Thee scarce I could, e'en then, forget: A life, bereft of light, no memory need To tell of night that ne'er to morning leads, Of day that is forever set. From yonder sky the noonward sun was torn, Ere day dawn's rosy hues had banished; A starless midnight blotted out the morn, Ere childhood's dewy joys had vanished. No slow paced twilight ushered in the night; A spangled web, the Heavens were swept from sight; The full moon fled and never waned; And all of Earth that's beautiful and fair. Became as shadows in the empty air-- A boundless, blackened blank remained! I heard the gates of night, with sullen jar, Close on the cheerful day forever; Hope from my sky sank like the evening star, Which finds in darkness, zenith never, For scarce she knew, blithe offspring of the day, How there to shine, where night held boundless sway; And shapes of beauty, grace and bloom, And fair-formed joys that once around me danced, Bewildered grew, where sunbeams never glanced, And lost their way in that wide gloom. Pensylla, o'er me many sunless years Have flown, since last the beams of heaven, The soft ascent of morn through smiles and tears, The sweet descent of dreamy even-- Or sight of wood and fields in green arrayed, Vernal resplendence or Autumnal shade, Or Winter's gloom or Summer's blaze; Bird, beast or works that trophy man's abode, Or he divine, the image of his God, Met my rapt gaze. Look, gentle guide! Thou see'st the imperial sun Forth sending far his ambient glory, O'er laughing fields and frowning highlands dun, O'er glancing streams and woodlands hoary. In orient clouds he steeps his amber hair, With beams far slanting through the flaming air, Bids Earth, with all her hymning sound, declare The praise of everlasting light. On my bared head I felt his pitying ray, He loves to shine on my benighted way; But ah, Pensylla! he brings to me no day-- Nor yet his setting, deeper night. Prime gift of God, that veil'st His sovereign throne, And dost of Him in sense remind me-- Blest light of Heaven, why hast thou from me flown? To these sad shades, why hast resigned me? On pinions of surpassing beauty borne, When Nature hails the glad advance of morn, In thine unsullied loveliness. Thou com'st; but to my darkened eyes in vain-- My night, e'en in the noon of thy domain, Yields not to thee, since joy of thine again Can ne'er my dayless being bless. SILENCE. Next, Silence, fit companion of the Night, In drearier depths my being steeping, Like the felt presence of an unseen sprite, With muffled tread comes creeping, creeping. Before me close her smothering curtain swings, And o'er my life a shadeless shadow flings; Sinking with pitiless weight, and slow To shroud the last sweet glimpse of Earth and Man, And set my limits to the narrow span Of but an arm's length here below. O, whither shall I fly, this stroke to shun? Where turn me, this side death and heaven? Almost I would my course on earth were run, And all to Night and Silence given! I turn to man: can he but with me mourn? Alike we're helpless, and, as bubbles borne, We to a common haven float. To Him, th' All-seeing and All-hearing One, Behold, I turn! More hid than he there's none, More silent none, none more remote! Alas, Pensylla, stay that pious tear! Now nearer come, I fain thy voice would hear, Like music when the soul is dreaming; Like music dropping from a far off sphere, Heard by the good, when life's end draweth near. It faintly comes, a spirit seeming, The sounds at once entrance me, ear and soul: The voice of winds and waves, the thunder's roll. The steed's proud neigh, and lamb's meek plaint, The hum of bees, and vesper hymn of birds, The rural harmony of flocks and herds, The song of joy, or praise, and man's sweet words-- Come to me fainter--yet more faint Was my poor soul to God's great works so dull. That they from her must hide forever? Earth too replete with joy, too beautiful, For me, ingrate, that we must sever? For by sweet scented airs that round me blow, By transient showers, the sun's impassioned glow, And smell of woods and fields, alone I know Of Spring's approach, and Summer's bloom; And by the pure air, void of odors sweet, By noontide beams, low slanting, without heat, By rude winds, cumbering snows, and hazardous sleet, Of Autumn's blight and Winter's gloom As at the entrance of an untrod cave, I shrink--so hushed the shades and sombre. This death of sense makes life a breathing grave, A vital death, a waking slumber! 'Tis as the light itself of God were fled-- So dark is all around, so still, so dead; Nor hope of change, one ray I find! Yet must submit. Though fled fore'er the light, Though utter silence bring me double night, Though to my insulated mind, Knowledge her richest pages ne'er unfold, And "human face divine" I ne'er behold-- Yet must submit, must be resigned! TO THE SHADES. To thee, blind Milton, solemn son of night, Great exile once from day's dominion bright, Whose genius, steeped in truth and glory, Like some wide orb of new created light, Rose, in the world, bewildering mortals' sight-- I'll sing till earth's young hills grow hoary! For what of joy I've found in life's dark way, And what of excellence have reached I may, Much, much is due thy wondrous rhyme, Which sang the triumphs of Eternal Truth, Revealed blest glimpses of immortal youth, Of Heaven, e'er angels sang of time: Of light, that o'er the embryon tumult broke, Of earth, when all the stars symphonious woke, Till man, as if from Heaven a seraph spoke, Entranced, hung on thy strains sublime. Day closes on the earth his one bright eye, That Night, her starry lids unsealing, May ope her thousand in a loftier sky, God's higher mysteries revealing. So when thy day from thee its light withdrew, And o'er the night its rueful shadows threw, And "from the cheerful ways of men" Thy steps cut off, thy mind, thick set with eyes, As night with stars, piercing thy shrouded skies, And proving most illumined then, When darkest seeming, soared on cherub wings-- Those star-eyed wings--higher than ever springs The beam of day, to see, and tell of things Invisible to mortal ken. O'er earth thy numbers shall not cease to roll Till man to live, who to them hearkened; Thy fame, no less immortal than thy soul, Shall shine when yon proud sun is darkened. Thee, now, methinks, I see, O bard divine! Where ripen no fair joys that are not thine, And God's full love is pleased on thee to shine, Still by the heavenly Muses fired, And starred among the angelic minstrel band, The sacred lyre thou sway'st with sovereign hand, While seraphs, in awed rapture, round thee stand, As one by God himself inspired. Sublime Beethoven, wizard king of sound, Once exiled from thy realm, yet not discrowned-- Assist me; since my spirit, thrilling With thy surpassing strains, is mute, spell bound; For through the hush of years they still resound, With music weird my spent ear filling. When Silence clasped thee in her dismal spell, And Earth born Music sang her sad farewell; Thy mighty Genius, as in scorn, Arose in silent majesty to dwell, Where from symphonic spheres thou heard'st to swell, As on celestial breezes borne, Sounds, scarce by angels heard, e'en in their dreams; Which, at thy bidding, wrought a thousand themes, And pouring down in rich pellucid streams, Filled organ grand and resonant horn; With rarest sweetness touched each dulcet string, Made martial bugle and bold clarion ring, Soft flute provoked like the lone bird of spring, To warble lays of love forlorn; Woke shrilly reed to many a pastoral note Thrilled witching lyre and lips melodious smote, Till earth, in tuneful ether, seemed to float-- As when first sang the stars of morn! Till wondering angels were entranced to chime, With harp and choral tongue, thy strains sublime And bear thy soul beyond the reach of time, Heaven's halls harmonious to adorn. Ah, me! could I with ken angelic, scan Celestial glories hid from mortal man, I'd deem this night a day supernal! Could music, borne from some far singing sphere, Float sweetly down and thrill my stricken ear, I'd pray this hush might be eternal! RESIGNATION. Pensylla, look! With tremulous points of fire, The sun, red-sinking lights yon distant spire O'er leafy hill and blossoming meadows, Spreads wide and level his departing beams, Then sinks to rest, as one sure of sweet dreams, 'Mid pillowing clouds and curtaining shadows. Night draws her lucid shade o'er sky and earth; Solemn and bright, Heaven's starry eyes look forth; The evening hymn of praise and song of mirth Rise gratefully from man's abode. O, Night! I love her sombre majesty! 'Tis sweet, her double solitude, to me! Pensylla, leave me now! Alone I'd be With Darkness, Silence and my God. O Thou, whose shadow is but light's excess, The echo of whose voice but silentness, Whose light and music, half expended, Would flood, dissolve the sphery frame; 'twixt whom And man no endless night can throw its gloom Till long Eternity is ended-- Which ne'er shall end--to thee, my trust, I turn! To one, for whom in vain thy lamps now burn, A hearing deign; nor from thy footstool spurn The prayer of an imprisoned mind. Father, thy sun is set; night veils the world, That orbs more beauteous be to man unfurled, Then in my Night, let me but find New realms, where thought and fancy may rejoice; Let its long silence ne'er displace Thy voice From whispering hope and peace, 'twere my choice To be thus smitten deaf and blind! Fill me with light and music from above, And so inspire with truth, faith, courage, love, That Thou and man my work can well approve-- Father, to all I'm then resigned! Harp of the mournful voice, now fare thee well! My sad song ended, ended is thy spell. Perchance thine echoes, memory haunting, May oft awaken, shadowing forth the swell Of long sung monody and long tolled knell, And o'er the dead past, dirges chanting; But for me, ever hang in Sorrow's hall! Bid Night and Silence spread oblivion's pall O'er earthly blooming joys, that seared must fall And leave the stricken soul to weep:-- Ever, till this devoted head be hoar, And the swart angel whispering at the door; When I thy slumbers may disturb once more. Ere double night bring double sleep, Till then, I sing in happier, bolder strain: What's lost to me is God's; what's left, for pain Or joy still His: and endless day, His reign: And reckoning of my Night He'll keep! AUTUMN. BY ELLENOR J. JONES, Of the Indiana Institution. Oh Autumn, sweet sad Autumn queen, With robe of golden brown, Our hearts are bowed with grief and pain, As each leaf flutters down. In every drooping flow'ret, In every leafless tree, By warbling birds deserted, We find some trace of thee. Thou'rt lovely, oh, so lovely, And yet how brief thy stay, Why is it all things beautiful Must droop and fade away? All, all thy gorgeous painted leaves, With colors bright and gay, Were touched by nature's magic brush, Then rudely cast away. And thus our dearest hopes are crushed, By fate's relentless will, Like withered leaves they pass away-- But peace, sad heart, be still. Thou too must breast the adverse wind, Be wildly tempest-tossed, Perhaps when thou art hushed in death, Thou'lt meet the loved and lost. But for this sweetly, solemn thought That thrills us with delight, This life, so marred by grief and pain, Could never seem so bright. Then welcome, sweet, sad Autumn days, Though brief the hallowed reign, For every smile must have its tear, And every joy its pain. A TIME FOR ALL THINGS. BY ELLEN COYN, Of the Arkansas Institution. I sat down at the window, where I oft had calmed my ruffled feeling, For summer evening's balmy air Has for the wounded spirit healing. That morning I had been quite glad, For hope had prospects bright in keeping, But fortune changed, and I was sad, And there I sat in silence weeping. 'Tis vain I said to hope for good, Or cherish bliss for one short hour, If morn puts forth a fragrant bud, Ere night 'tis but a withered flower. My Bible lay upon the stand, In which I'd ofttimes found a blessing, I quickly took the book in hand, In hope to learn a useful lesson. I read upon its open page, "There is a time and purpose given, It has been so from age to age, For everything that's under Heaven." 'Tis vain and wrong to wish, I thought, That life with me be always sunny, My cup with bitter never fraught, But always overflown with honey When fortune frowns I'll not despair, I'll only weep away my sorrow, 'Twill ease my heart and brow of care, I'll laugh when joy returns to-morrow. DRIFTING. BY ELLENOR J. JONES. We are drifting on the sea of life, Like ships we're tempest-tossed, And 'mid this world of care and strife How many are wrecked and lost! Our vessels are sometimes set afloat, 'Neath a bright and cloudless sky, But far in the distance hid from view, The breakers are sure to lie. Others are launched on an angry sea, When the waves are dashing high, And the wild winds give a ghostly tone, To the curlew's troubled cry. But the good ship Faith is gaily launched, For the pilot, Hope, is there, And Love, with his flaming lamp of light, Maketh all things wondrous fair. Soon Faith is wrecked by a careless word, And beautiful Hope is dead, And Love, with the holy light of life, In an angry moment fled. And thus on the wide wild sea of life, We are drifting day by day, Without one thought of the solemn truth, That we all shall pass away. 
23068	----	My First Cruise, and other stories, by W.H.G. Kingston. ________________________________________________________________________ There are four stories here, but it is not clear whether they are all by Kingston. The first one, which gives the book its name, certainly is, and possibly the third, "The Enchanted Gate". The first story is a sort of diary or blog written by a young midshipman on his first voyage to sea, to his brother who was still at school. There are all the usual incidents, including swimming exercises. The other stories are well outside the Kingston style, but are certainly amusing and worth reading. The book is quite short. ________________________________________________________________________ MY FIRST CRUISE, AND OTHER STORIES, BY W.H.G. KINGSTON. STORY ONE, CHAPTER 1. NOTES FROM PRINGLE RUSHFORTH'S SEA LOG. A LETTER TO BROTHER HARRY, AT ETON. It has become a reality, dear Harry. I feel very strange--a curious sensation in the throat, just as if I was going to cry, and yet it is exactly what I have been longing for. You know better than any one how I had set my heart on going to sea, and yet I thought that I should never manage it. But, after all, here I am, really and truly a midshipman; at least a volunteer of the first class, as we are called now. The first time I put on my uniform, with my gold-band cap and dirk, I could not help every now and then looking at the gold lace on my collar and the buttons with the anchor and crown, and very pretty and nice they looked; and I do believe that this half-reconciled poor mamma, and Fanny, and Mary, and dear little Emily to my going when they saw me with them on. I'll tell you how it all happened. Uncle Tom came to stay with us. He had been at the Hall a week when, the very day before I was to go back to school, while we were all at breakfast, he got a long official-looking letter. No sooner had he torn it open and glanced at its contents, than he jumped up and shook papa by the hand, then kissed mamma, exclaiming, "They do acknowledge my services, and in a handsome way too, and they have appointed me to the Juno intended for the South American station; the very ship I should have chosen! I must have Pringle with me. No nonsense, Mary. He wants to be a sailor, and a sailor he shall be. He's well fitted for it. I'll have no denial. It's settled--that's all right." (I had been telling him the day before how much I wanted to go to sea.) He carried his point, and set all the household preparing my kit, and then posted off for London, and rattled down to Portsmouth to hoist his flag. He is not a man to do things by halves. In three days I followed him. The ship was nearly ready for sea. Most of the officers had joined. There was only one vacancy, which I got. Another captain had been appointed, who had been superseded, and he had selected most of the officers. Many of my messmates are good fellows, but of others the less said about them the better, at least as far as I could judge from the way they behaved when I first went into the berth. We carry thirty-six guns. There is the main deck, on which most of them are placed, and the upper deck, which is open to the sky, and where all the ropes lead, and where some guns are, and the lower deck, where we sleep in hammocks slung to the beams, and where our berth is; that is the place where we live--our drawing-room, and parlour, and study, and anything else you please. There is a table in the centre, and lockers all round, and if you want to move about you have to get behind the other fellows' backs or over the table. Under it are cases and hampers of all sorts, which the caterer has not unpacked. He is an old mate, and keeps us all in order. His name is Gregson. I don't know whether I shall like him. He has been a great many years a midshipman; for a mate is only a passed midshipman who wants to be a lieutenant, but can't. He has no interest--nobody to help him on--so there he is growling and grumbling from morning to night, declaring that he'll cut the service, and go and join the Russians, and make his country rue the day; but he doesn't, and I believe he wouldn't, if they would make him an admiral and a count off-hand. My chief friend they call Dicky Snookes. His real name, though, is Algernon Godolphin Stafford, on which he rather prides himself. This was found out, so it was voted that he should be re-christened, and not be allowed under dreadful pains and penalties to assume his proper appellation in the berth; so no one thinks of calling him anything but Snookes. He is getting not to mind it, which I am glad of, as he does not seem a bad fellow, and is up to fun of all sorts. There is another fellow who is always called Lord Jones or My Lord, because he is as unlike what you would suppose a nobleman to be as possible. Then there is Polly. His real name is Skeffington Scoulding, which was voted too long, so, as poor fellow he has lost an eye, he was dubbed Polyphemus, which was soon turned into Polly. I haven't got a new name yet, so I hope to stick to my own. I have picked up a good many more bits of information during the three days I have been on board, but I have not time to tell them now. I will though, don't fear. I hope to be put in a watch when we get to sea. I don't mean inside a silver case, to go on tick!--ha!--ha!--ha! but to keep watch under a lieutenant, to see what the ship is about, and to keep her out of scrapes. Good-bye, dear old fellow, I'll tell you more when I can.-- Your affect brother, Pringle Rushforth. STORY ONE, CHAPTER 2. NOTES FROM MY LOG. The capstern went round with a merry tune--the boatswain's whistle sounded shrilly along the decks with a magic effect--the anchor was hove up--the sails were let fall and but a few minutes had passed, after the captain gave the word of command, before the ship, under a wide spread of snowy canvas, was standing down the Solent towards the Needle passage. It was a lovely summer's day, the sky was blue and so was the water, and the land looked green and bright, and the paint was so fresh, and the deck so white, and the officers in their glittering uniform had so polished an appearance, and the men in their white trousers and shirts with worked collars and natty hats, looked so neat and active as they sprang nimbly aloft, or flew about the decks, that I felt very proud of the frigate and everything about her, and very glad that I had come to sea. To be sure matters below were not quite in the same order just then. Still prouder was I when we saluted the Queen, who was at Osborne--firing away first on one side and then on the other, with a flash and a roar, and a huge puff of smoke. We passed out at the Needles with the cheese-like castle of Hurst and its red ninepin-looking lighthouses on our right, and a little further to the west on our right with the high cliffs of Alum Bay striped curiously with coloured sand and three high-pointed rocks, wading out into the sea, as if wanting to get across to the north shore. These are the Needle rocks. We had run the high white cliff at the west end of the island out of sight before dark, and that, except a thin blue tint of land away to the north-east, was the last I saw of the shores of dear old happy England. I daresay others felt as I did, but we all had so much to do that we hadn't time to talk about it. Dickey Snookes had been to sea already for a few months, and of course knew a great deal more than I could--at least he said that he did, and on the strength of it offered to tell me all about everything. I thought I saw a twinkle in his eye, but his eyes always are twinkling, so I did not suspect him of intending mischief. We had some vegetables for dinner--some carrots and turnips--and he asked me if I knew where they grew? I said in some garden, I supposed. "Of course, young 'un," he answered. But you wouldn't suppose we had a garden up in our foretop, where we grow all sorts of greens and other things. You have not found your way there, I suspect. I told him that I had not, and he said that I must go up there that very afternoon with him, and that he would introduce me to the head-gardener, who was always up there looking after the gooseberry bushes. I knew that this was a joke, but still I wanted to see what he meant. I said that I was ready at once, but he kept putting me off; and whenever he saw me going up the rigging he always got some one to send for me or to call me, so that it was quite late in the day before I succeeded in getting into the shrouds. The sun had now gone down, the sky was overcast, and the sea had a leaden gloomy look--there was a swell also, and the ship rolled so much from side to side, that, as I looked up and saw the mastheads forming arches in the sky, I could not help fancying that I should be sent off when I got up there like a stone from a sling, or an ancient catapult, right into the water. The idea made me hold on very tight, let me tell you; yet, as it would never do to give it up, on I went with my teeth pretty closely clenched, and my eyes fixed on the top, which seemed to grow farther and farther away from me, like Jack's bean-stalk. At last I got up just under the top. There are two ways of getting on to it. One is by going along some ropes, called the futtock shrouds, when one hangs very much as a fly does crawling along the ceiling. I didn't like it, being up there all alone in the gloom, for it was very different to climbing an apple-tree or the oak-tree at the bottom of the lawn, with our nest on the top of it, where you and I used to sit and smoke cane cigars, and fancy ourselves Istelson and Collingwood. It wasn't pleasant going along the futtock shrouds, and still less getting round them outside into the top, for as the ship rolled it felt as if the mast was coming right down on the top of me. I waited, however, holding on as a cat does to a bough when you shake it, till the ship rolled over the other way, and then up I sprang easily enough, and there I saw Dickey Snookes and Polly and My Lord all standing by the side of the captain of the top, and grinning from ear to ear, as if they had some very good joke in hand. At first I thought that the captain of the top was a very important person, but I soon found that he was only one of the seamen who is more active and smarter than the rest, and takes command of those aloft. "Here comes Midshipman Green," they all exclaimed, as they saw my head appearing between the topmast shrouds. When I stood in the top they all insisted on shaking hands with me, pinching my fingers terribly. "And so you want to see our garden up here," said Snookes; "you're the greenest thing we've got in it just now, let me tell you--ha! ha! ha!" I didn't see anything to laugh at; but I laughed just to keep them company, thinking the joke was over. However, before I knew what they were about they caught hold of me, and while one blinded my eyes with a handkerchief, I found myself lashed up to the rigging with my arms and legs spread out just like the eagle on a Russian flag. Presently all was silent. The ship kept rolling backwards and forwards as before, and I began to feel somewhat queer in the region of my waistband and right up to my throat, still I wouldn't cry out. Suddenly I found the bandage whisked off my eyes, and then I could see only one top man standing on the other side of the top, but my messmates had disappeared. I called to the man. He touched his hat with the greatest respect. I told him to cast me loose. "My orders were, sir, not to touch you," he answered. I argued the point. "Well, sir, if as how you pays your footing, I'll do it," he replied; "but, sir, you'll take care that I'm not tied up and get two dozen for disobeying orders." I was ready to promise anything, for it was very unpleasant rolling about up there in the dark. After some hesitation and further talk, Tom Hansard, that was the topman's name, cut off the lashings. I gave him five shillings, all the money I had in my pocket. "You'll keep it secret, sir," said he. "You'll say nothing against a poor fellow like me, sir; that you won't, I know." I promised him, and he then helped me down through the lubber's hole, for as to going down outside, I couldn't just then have done it to save my life. When I got back to the berth, there were all my three messmates seated round the table, taking their tea, and pretending to be very much astonished at hearing all which had happened to me. Of course, I said nothing about Tom Hansard, and they pretended that they could not make out how I had got loose. I found out, however, that the whole plan was arranged beforehand by Dicky Snookes and my other messmates with the captain of the top, just to see what I was made of, and what I would do, it being understood that he was to keep whatever he could get out of me. Had I cried or made a fuss about the matter, or said that I would complain to my uncle, I should have been looked upon as a regular sneak. The fellows hate telling of one another here just as much as we did at school. From the way I took the trick I believe they liked me better than they did before. Of course, all about the garden and the vegetables was nonsense, and I should have been green to have believed it, which I didn't. Away we went rolling along with a westerly swell and a northerly wind, while many of the fellows in the berth were singing: "There we lay, all the day, in the Bay of Biscay, O;" and others "Rule Britannia," old Gregson not forgetting his standing joke of "Bless the old girl; I wish, while she was about it, that she had ruled them straighter." The very next morning the gale, of which the swell was the forerunner, came down upon us with a sudden gust. "All hands shorten sail," was shouted along the decks. The men flew aloft, that is, they climbed up so nimbly that they looked as if they were flying, and they lay out on the yards to reef the sail. Snookes had to go also, as he was stationed in the foretop. "Any greens up there to-day?" I asked as he passed me, not looking happy, for the ship was tumbling about, the spray was flying over us, and the wind was howling terrifically in the rigging. It was altogether very different to what it had been on the previous evening. Still poor Snookes had to go up. The boatswain's whistle and the voices of the officers sounded loud above the gale, and so did the cries of the midshipmen. I contrived to make myself heard, though, of course, I only sung out what I was told to say, and wasn't always certain what would happen after I had said it, any more than does a person in a fairy tale, who has got hold of some magic words and doesn't know what effect they will produce. The topgallantsails and royals were quickly furled--those are the sails highest up, you know; and then the huge topsails came rattling down the masts, and the men lay out on the yards and caught hold of them, as they were bulging out and flapping fearfully about, to reef them. One of the topmen, Tom Hansard, was at the weather yardarm, and had hold of the earing, which isn't a bit like those gold things our sisters wear in their ears, but is a long rope which helps to reef the sails. Suddenly the ship gave a tremendous lurch, I heard a cry, I looked up, and there was Tom Hansard hanging by one hand to the earing from the yard-arm, right over the foaming ocean. I felt as if I had swallowed a bucket full of snow. I thought the poor fellow must be dropped overboard, and so did everybody else, and some were running to one of the boats to lower her to pick him up. He swung fearfully about from side to side. No human power could save him. I was watching to see him drop, when he made a great effort, and springing up, he caught the rope with his other hand. Still he was only a degree better off. Fancy dangling away at the end of a thin rope, jerked backwards and forwards high up in the air, with certain death were he to fall on board, and very small prospect of escape if he fell into the foaming, tumbling sea, through which the ship was flying at the rate of some ten knots an hour. I felt inclined to shriek out in sympathy, for I am sure that I should have shrieked out, and very loudly too, had I been up there in his place. I felt sure that he would come down when I saw two of the topmen going out to the end of the yard-arm and stretching out their arms towards him to help him. He saw them, and began to climb up the thin rope till they could catch hold of his jacket, then up they pulled him, though the sails flapping about very nearly tore him out of their hands. They held him on to the yard for a minute till he could recover himself, and then he scrambled in on to the top. There was a general shout fore and aft when he was safe. Another man went to the weather earing, and three reefs were taken in the topsails. I heard the first lieutenant observe to Uncle Tom that he was very glad to get the ship snug at last; but I cannot say that I thought her snug, or anything snug about her, for there we were among clouds of sleet and spray, tumbling and rolling about in that undignified way in which I had not thought it possible so fine a frigate could have been tumbled and rolled about. It brought down the ship a peg or two in my estimation, and took the shine out of many of us, let me tell you. That fellow Snookes was continually offering me a lump of fat bacon, and at dinner he contrived to slip all the most greasy bits into my plate. I held out manfully, and tried to look very heroic, or, at all events, indifferent; but, oh Harry, I did feel very wretched, and began to reflect that I might possibly have been rather happier on shore. I suspect that the way my lips curled, and the yellow look of my eyes, betrayed me. The gale lasted for three days. I was very glad when it was over; so you understand it is not all sunshine at sea. STORY ONE, CHAPTER 3. THE SLAVER. It was reported that we were to touch at one or two places on the coast of Africa, and then to stand across to the Brazils. The first land we made was that near Sierra Leone. I always thought that negroes lived in thatched huts, and wore bits of white cloth round their loins. We brought up before Free Town, the capital of the colony, when what was my surprise to see really a very handsome place, containing between fifteen and twenty thousand inhabitants, the greater number black or brown men, and as well-dressed and comfortable-looking as any white people could be. What is more, they have schools and colleges where they are capitally taught, and all the little black children go to school; so that the truth is, that they are far better educated than are the children of the working classes in many parts of England, and are all just as good Christians as we are. Sommers told me all this, and a great deal more. I haven't spoken about him before. He's a mate--such a good-natured, kind fellow, and is very merry, though he can be very serious; and do you know, when he's in the berth, none of the others, big or little, swear and talk about things they oughtn't to. I like Sommers, and so even does Snookes and My Lord; and he never lets anybody bully Polly when he's near. I think that I should have been bullied a good deal, but I took everything that was said or done in good part, or pretended to be unconscious of it, and lost no opportunity of retorting--good-naturedly of course--it would not have done otherwise. And now, the rest only play the same tricks with me that they do with each other. No one makes any difference with me because I am the captain's nephew, any more than Uncle Tom does himself. Uncle Tom is very kind, but he makes no difference that I can see between the rest of the midshipmen and me. He does the best that he can for all of us, that is the truth: he punishes all alike if we do wrong, and has us all into the cabin and gives us good advice, and talks to us frequently. Still we do, somehow or other, manage to get into scrapes. I have been mastheaded twice, and Dickey Snookes five times, since we came to sea; once for dressing up the sheep in some of the men's clothes just before the crew were mustered, and then letting them out on the deck; and another time for cutting poor Polly's hammock down by the head, and very nearly cracking his skull--luckily it's rather thick. After leaving Free Town we touched at Monrovia, the capital of Liberia. Have you ever read about that settlement? It was established by the people of the United States, and colonised by men of colour, or blacks, who had been once slaves and had obtained their freedom. It is a republic, and the chief magistrate as well as all the officers are brown or black men. It is not nearly so large nor so flourishing a place as Sierra Leone. In the latter, you see, there are a great many intelligent white men who set the blacks an example of industry and perseverance, in which qualities they are somewhat wanting generally. Still it is wonderful to see what black men can do when left free with a good example before them. Monrovia is really a very respectable-looking city. There are a number of stone warehouses full of goods near the water, and a good many dwelling-houses of brick, nicely furnished, and of two storeys high, but the greater number of the habitations are of wood, on brick foundations. There are several churches, four or five at least, with black or coloured preachers. The greater part of the principal inhabitants are engaged in trade, exchanging palm oil, ivory, cam-wood, which is a valuable dye, for European or American manufactures. They have also a number of vessels manned by Liberian sailors, which sail along the coast to collect the produce of the country. Uncle Tom took me on shore, but we remained only a very short time, so that I cannot give you a more particular account of the place. Leaving the coast of Africa, we stood across the Atlantic towards that of America. We had left the land some four or five days when the wind fell, and we lay becalmed, one side and then the other dipping provokingly into the smooth, glassy, and shining water, and very nearly rolling our masts out. It was so hot, too, that the pitch bubbled up through the seams in the deck, and Dickey Snookes declared we could have roasted our dinners on the capstern-head. I believe, indeed, that we could. I was very glad when the sun went down, and the night came, but it was not so very much cooler even then, and most of the watch below remained on deck to swallow some fresh air, but very little any one of us benefited by it. The next day, at all events, I thought that we should get a breeze, but it was much the same. Hot! oh, how hot it was! We all went gasping about the decks, not knowing what to do with ourselves, and the sea shone so brightly that it was positively painful to look at it. I daresay that it would have been much worse on shore, for, at all events, the air we breathed was pure and clear, though it was pretty well roasted. It was curious to see the same chips of wood and empty hampers, and all the odds and ends thrown overboard, floating around us day after day. We had been a week thus becalmed when I was sent aloft, as the midshipmen occasionally are, to see what was to be seen. I did not expect to see anything, but I did, and that was a long, thin, dark blue line away to the north-east. I reported it to the officer of the watch. He said it was all right, and that we should have a breeze before long, and ordered the watch to trim sails. The blue line increased in width till it could be seen from the deck, and on it came, growing broader and broader every instant. Sure enough it was a breeze stirring up the surface of the ocean. In a little time the upper sails felt its influence, and then the topsails began to bulge out, and the courses moved, and away we glided through the still smooth water faster than we had done for many a day. For some hours we ran on till a sail was reported right ahead still becalmed. As we drew near we discovered her to be a large topsail schooner, with a very rakish appearance. She was still becalmed, but as we brought the breeze up with us her sails bulged out, and she began to glide through the water. There were many discussions as to what she was; some thought her an honest trader, others a slaver; some said she was American, and others Spanish or Portuguese. "One thing is in her favour," observed old Gregson, "she does not attempt to run away." "Good reason, Greggy," said Dickey Snookes aside to me, "she can't--just see what she will do when she gets the wind!" Though I had never seen a slaver, the stranger came exactly up to my idea of what a slaver was like. We always at sea call a vessel, whose name and country we don't know, a stranger. Still she did not run away even when she got the breeze, but hove her topsail to the mast, and kept bobbing gracefully away at us as we came up, while the stars and stripes of the United States flew out at her peak. All doubts as to the honesty of her character were dissipated when an officer standing at her gangway hailed and asked what frigate we were. The reply was given, and he was asked what schooner that was. "`The Wide Awake,' from New Orleans, bound in for Sierra Leone. Shall be happy to take any letters or packages you have to send for that settlement, captain," exclaimed the speaker through his trumpet. This was all very polite. Still more so was it when the American skipper offered to send his boat aboard us to receive our despatches. As it happened, the captain had been wishing to send a letter back to Sierra Leone, and several of the officers wished to write, and as the delay would not be great, we told the polite American that we would trouble him. He seemed well pleased, and said that he would get his boat ready, and drop aboard us. I remained on deck watching the schooner, for there is something very attractive to my eye in the movements of another vessel at sea. A boat was after some time lowered from the schooner and pulled towards us, when she filled her fore-topsail, stood a little way on, tacked, and then steered so as to get to windward of us. I saw our first lieutenant watching her very narrowly when she did this, and then looking at her boat. Presently he went into the captain's cabin. He was not there long. When he came out he ordered a boat to be manned, with the crew all armed, and directed the crews of three or four guns on either side to go quietly to their quarters. I saw, meantime, that the American's boat, instead of pulling up alongside, was passing astern of us, so as to meet the schooner, now rapidly approaching our weather quarter. She was still within hearing when the first lieutenant shouted, "Our despatches are ready--come on board!" But the people in the boat pretended not to hear, and pulled on towards the schooner. On this Sommers was ordered to take command of the boat, and to proceed on board the stranger. To my great delight I got leave from Uncle Tom to accompany him. It was very kind--it was the first piece of favouritism he had shown me. Dickey Snookes was quite jealous when he saw me jump into the boat. "Ah, Pringle, you'll get knocked on the head, my boy, depend on that!" was his encouraging observation. Away we pulled towards the schooner. Her boat had reached her, and was hoisted up. We had before not observed more than a dozen or fifteen men at the utmost. There were now more than double that number on her deck, or about her rigging. Every stitch of canvas she could carry was set; her yards were braced sharp up, and away she went like a shot on a bowline. "Give way, my lads, give way!" cried Sommers, and the men did give way, pulling with all their might; but the schooner went through the water much faster than we did, and in spite of all our efforts soon left us far behind. "That was the meaning of all his politeness about the letters-- he expected to hoodwink us, did he? the rogue!" exclaimed Sommers. "But though we do not catch him, the frigate will; there is no fear of that!" We pulled on after the schooner some time longer, but Sommers at length saw that the chase was perfectly hopeless. "The worst of it is, that the frigate will have to heave to to pick us up," he observed. He then asked me if I should mind letting the frigate stand on after the chase, and stand the chance of being picked up when she had caught her. I cannot say that I particularly liked the notion of being left all alone in a boat in the middle of the Atlantic. Still I did not like to say so. However, the captain settled the point by heaving the frigate to as she came up to us, and ordering us to return on board. This we did with as little delay, as possible, when once more the frigate stood on after the schooner. Still the latter had gained a considerable advantage, but she was not beyond the range of our guns, and we now began to fire away at her to make her heave to again. Of course she had no intention of doing this if she could help it. Our shot went flying pretty thickly after her, but still, though several struck her and cut her ropes, and made eyelet holes in her sails, her damages were repaired as quickly as they were produced, and there seemed a considerable chance of her getting away from us altogether. STORY ONE, CHAPTER 4. THE CHASE. Our frigate sails very fast; there are few ships in the service sail faster, and none in most respects to surpass her, or indeed, I really believe, to equal her. I do not know what she cannot do. The boatswain says, and I believe him, that she can do everything but talk. Still, somehow or other, that piccarooning-looking schooner managed to keep ahead of us, and after some time actually ran out of the range of our shot. She was undoubtedly one of the fastest vessels of her class ever built, or it would not have happened. The schooner made a number of short tacks right away in the wind's eye. This would not have suited us, as we took longer to go about, so we had to stretch away to the eastward, while she, tacking once more, stood to the north-west. Sometimes we appeared to be a long way apart, then about we would go and be almost up with her again. What we had to fear was night coming on before we could get up to her, when very probably she would contrive to escape in the dark. Old Gregson watched her moodily. "Of course she will escape," he observed. "She is probably full of slaves, and would prove a rich prize to us. We are not likely to have any luck; no ship has that I'm on board." It seemed probable that in this case, at all events, he would be right. We were all so eager in watching the chase that none of us felt inclined to go below. The pangs of hunger at dinner-time, however, drove most of us there. We had not got half through the meal before Dickey Snookes made his appearance with the announcement that the schooner's maintopmast had been carried away, and that we should be soon up to her. We all rushed on deck to find matters very much as they were when we went below, and on our return to the berth there was Master Dickey comfortably seated at table, helping himself to the best bits of the boiled beef and duff, and laughing at our simplicity, or, as he remarked, at our being so easily sold. He got a cobbing by the by, as a wind-up to his amusement, after dinner was over. It is an operation by no means over-pleasant to the person on whom it is inflicted. The weapon employed is a handkerchief with a corner knotted; or a stocking, with the end filled with socks, or something to make a hard knot. The patient is laid across the mess-table, and each member of the berth inflicts a blow on a part of his body, over which his clothes are tightly drawn. As the day drew on, the wind increased. Dickey Snookes having been properly cobbed, we all hurried on deck. As we looked through our glasses, we saw that the schooner was staggering along under as much canvas as she could carry; while the frigate glided on with becoming dignity, we having decidedly the advantage in a strong wind. I asked Sommers what he thought about the matter. "We are coming up with her, lad, hand over hand, and if the wind holds she will be under our guns before nightfall," he answered. As you may suppose, I was highly delighted with the thoughts of this, and hoped that I might be sent on board with the prize crew. Still the schooner held on her course, and her determined attempts to escape convinced us more and more that she had good reason for so doing. The evening was now drawing on. We had gained on her very considerably, but still she was sufficiently ahead, should the night prove dark, to escape us. The very idea that she would do so was provoking. Some did not seem to care so much about it as others. Dickey made a joke of the matter, and said how foolish we should all look in the morning when the schooner was nowhere; and Polly was provokingly indifferent. The sun went down, and darkness came on, and very dark it was; and though I looked and looked I could not see the chase, but there were many on board who could, and we began firing away, the flashes of the guns looking very bright through the darkness. At last I saw the schooner's dark hull and masts, like a shadow against the sky, and there then was a cry that her foretopmast was shot away, and our people gave a loud cheer. Directly after this the first lieutenant shouted that she had struck, and we ceased firing. Two boats were ordered away to take possession. The second lieutenant went in one, and Sommers had command of the other. I jumped into his boat, as if it were a matter of course; and away we pulled toward the schooner. "I guess that you have pretty considerably outmanoeuvred us, gentlemen, but still I don't know, by what right you, or any other men alive, venture on board a free and independent merchantman of the United States of America," said a man who met us at the gangway. "You come on board at your peril!" "We are well aware of that, friend," answered our lieutenant; "but we must be satisfied that you are an American before we let you go." Saying this, he led the way on board. By the light of the lanterns we carried, we could see a very ill-looking crew scowling at us, and evidently wishing to heave us overboard. It was lucky that we were all well armed. I daresay that you will fancy I could not have done much, but I could fire off a pistol at all events, which was as likely to kill as that of a bigger fellow--that was one comfort. The man who had hailed us, and pretended to be the captain, had said that the vessel was American. Mr Talbot was only a short time in the cabin when he came out again, and telling us that he had no doubt she was a Portuguese or Brazilian, ordered the hatches, which were closed, to be lifted off. This took us some little time to do. Never shall I forget the horrible stench--the shrieks and cries and groans which ascended from the hold as the hatches were got off. We lowered our lanterns and looked down. There, arranged in rows along the deck, and chained two and two, squatting on their hams, were several hundreds of blacks--men, women, and children. I cannot describe the dreadful faces of despair and horror and suffering which met our view as the light of our lanterns fell on them, while they looked up with their white eyes and black visages imploringly at us. I fancy that they thought we were going to shoot them all; for the Portuguese crew had told them so, in the hopes, should we free them, that they might set upon us and throw us overboard. This amiable intention was frustrated, because Mr Talbot had been on the coast of Africa and was well up to the tricks of the slavers. He consequently would not allow any of the poor wretches to be liberated till all necessary precautions had been taken to prevent them from doing any harm. Our first care was to secure the slaver's crew. They seemed as if inclined to make some resistance; but we pointed to the frigate, which was close to us, and intimated that if they did not behave themselves we should call her to our assistance; so, with no very good grace, they consented to step into one of our boats to be carried on board the Juno. I was very glad to get rid of them, for I could not help feeling, as I walked about the deck, that any moment they might set upon us and knock us on the head. As soon as they had gone, Mr Talbot sent Sommers and me round the deck with water and farinha; that is the food the blacks are fed on. We had four men with us carrying the provisions. I could not have supposed that human beings, with flesh and blood like ourselves, could have existed in such a horrible condition. In the first place, there was barely four feet between the decks, and that was very high for a slaver; many are only three feet. Even I had to bend down to get along. Close as they could be packed, the poor creatures sat on the bare, hard, dirty deck, without even room to stretch their legs. I almost fainted, and even Sommers and the men had great difficulty in getting along. Oh! how eagerly the poor creatures drank the water when we put it to their mouths, though they did not seem to care much about the food. Many could not even lift up their heads to take the water. Several were dying; and as we put the tin cups to their mouths, even while gazing at us, and, I am sure, feeling grateful, they fell back and died. Many were already dead when we came to them, and there they lay, chained to the living. Sometimes we found that a father had died, leaving two or three small children; sometimes a mother had sunk, leaving an infant still living. Several poor children had died, and it was hard work, and cruel it seemed, to make the poor mothers give up the bodies to be thrown overboard. We came to one black lad, who was sitting by the side of a woman, whom we guessed must be his mother. Sommers said that he thought she had not many minutes to live. The poor fellow seemed so grateful when we gave her some water and food, which revived her somewhat. I never saw a greater change in anybody's countenance. He was at first the very picture of misery and despair. Then he thought that she was going to recover. He looked up as if he could almost have worshipped us, with a smile which, though his countenance was black, was full of expression. We knocked off her chains, and then those of the lad, and Sommers directed one of the men to assist me in carrying her on deck. There were many in as deplorable a condition as this poor woman, and I scarcely know why it was I felt so anxious to assist her, except on account of her son; there was something in his face which had so interested me. When we got her on deck, she sat up but she could not reply to her son, who, with tears in his eyes, spoke to her, imploring her, it seemed, to answer him. The surgeon and assistant-surgeons had by this time come on board. I begged the first to come and look at the poor woman before he went below. When I returned, she had sunk back in her son's arms. Our kind doctor took her hand--"It's all over with her; I can do nothing. The poor lad will find it out," he observed, and then he had to hurry below. It was some time before the poor lad could believe that his mother was dead, and then he burst into such a fit of tears that I thought he would have died himself. It convinced me that negroes have got hearts just like ours, though Dickey Snookes always declares they have not, and that they once had tails, which is all nonsense. We had now a strong body of seamen on board, and they kept bringing up the negroes from below--men, women, and children. Several were dead, and two or three had been dead for a couple of days or more. One poor woman had kept the dead body of her child, pretending that it was alive, nor bearing to part with it, till she herself fell sick. At length it was taken from her, but she died as soon as she was brought on deck. In spite of all the doctors could do, many others died also. It was daylight before we got the slave hold in anything like order. As soon as the sun rose, up went the glorious flag of old England, and from that moment every negro on board was free. It is a proud thing to feel that not for a moment can a man remain a slave who rests under the shadow of that time-honoured banner. The instant the slave, whatever his country, sets foot on British soil, he is free, or placed under the protection of the British flag. It is a thing to be proud of. Of that I am certain. Not for a long time, however, could we persuade the poor slaves that we meant them well, and were doing all we could for their benefit. When they once were convinced of this, they gave us their unlimited confidence. We were then able to trust about a third at a time on deck, to enable us to clean out the hold. It was not so much that we had reason to be on our guard against what the negroes could do to us, as to prevent them from injuring themselves. Mr Talbot had ordered about fifty to be brought on deck soon after daylight. He had their irons knocked off, and water and brushes were given them that they might clean themselves. No sooner, however, did two of them find themselves free, than, before anybody could prevent them, they leaped overboard. One poor fellow sunk at once, and disappeared from our sight; the other seemed to repent of the act, and swam to regain the schooner. I, with others, instantly leaped into one of the boats alongside to go and pick him up. Just as we were shoving off, I saw a black triangular fin sticking up above the surface dart from under the counter. We shouted and splashed the oars as we pulled with all our might towards the poor fellow. There was a terrible shriek; he gave one imploring gaze at us as he threw up his arms and sank from view. We could see him going rapidly down, with a large dark object below him, while a red circle came up and filled the eddy he had made. "Jack Shark musters pretty thick about here," observed the coxswain; "he knows well enough when he's likely to have a feast." It was very dreadful, but, do you know, it is extraordinary how little one feels those sort of things at the time. When I got on board I looked about for the poor lad whose mother had died. I found him still sitting by her body. That had to be taken from him, and then he was left alone. He seemed not to know or to care for any of the other blacks, but when I spoke to him he knelt down and kissed my hand, and said some words which I thought meant--"You'll be kind to me and take care of me. I know you will. I'll trust to you." I do not know whether this was really what he said or not, but, at all events, I determined to do my best, and to be a friend to him. Slavers, when captured, are usually sent into Sierra Leone to be condemned, when the slaves are set free, and the vessels are sold. On examining our prize, however, it was discovered that she had but a short allowance of water and farinha, or provisions of any sort; and as the wind was fair for Rio de Janeiro, and contrary for Sierra Leone, the captain decided on carrying her to the former place, or to some other port on the Brazilian coast, where she might obtain a sufficient supply of necessaries, which we could not afford to give her from the frigate. Sommers was appointed to command the prize, and I was not a little gratified when he obtained leave to take me with him. My traps were soon on board, and we then shaped a course for Rio de Janeiro. STORY ONE, CHAPTER 5. PETER PONGO. I forgot to say that Dickey Snookes was sent on board the prize to keep me company. He told me that the captain had called him into the cabin, and given him a long lecture about playing tricks, and that he had made up his mind to behave very circumspectly. I doubted that he would keep very long to his good resolution. I felt excessively proud when I first walked the deck of the prize as officer of the watch, though that fellow Snookes would declare that the old quartermaster who kept it with me was my dry-nurse, and that I was a mere make-believe. I know that I kept pacing up and down on the weather side of the quarter-deck with great dignity, looking up at the sails, and every now and then giving a glance at the compass, to assure myself that the man at the helm was steering a proper course. I should like to know what officer in the service, under the circumstances, could do more. We were ordered to keep the frigate always in sight, and as the prize sailed well, we had little difficulty in doing that. In the day time we collected the poor blacks to come on deck in fifties at a time, and walk up and down. We had a black man on board the frigate, who was now sent with us, and he understood the language of some of the slaves. I had not forgotten the poor boy whose mother I had seen die, and I got permission for him to attend at our mess. The other black seaman was able to explain to him what he had to do, and I set to work to teach him English. He learned with surprising rapidity, and could soon exchange words with me. I wished to give him a name, and succeeded in learning that his native one was Pongo. He, of course, had no Christian name, so I proposed calling him Peter, and he was always afterwards known as Peter Pongo. He soon became a capital servant, though he did now and then make curious mistakes. Once he brought our soup into the cabin in a wash-bowl, and another time emptied into a pail two bottles of wine which he had been ordered to cool in water. Snookes was for punishing him, but I saved the poor fellow, as I was certain that he had not done either of the things being aware of their incorrectness. He exhibited, in consequence, the greatest gratitude towards me, and evidently looked up to me as his friend and protector. He improved rapidly in his knowledge of English, and by the time we drew near the coast of South America he was able to explain himself with tolerable clearness. With the aid of the negro seaman I spoke of, I got somewhat of poor Peter Pongo's simple history out of him. I cannot put it in his words, for though at the time I could understand them, yet you certainly would not if I wrote them down. One day I had gone forward, and when seated on the forecastle, under the shade of the fore-staysail, I listened to his narrative. "Ah! Massa Pringle, my country very good," he began. He always called me Pringle, for he could not manage to pronounce my surname. "Plenty yams there-- plenty denge--plenty corn--plenty sheep--tall trees--high mountains-- water come gushing out of rocks up among clouds--so cool with foam--loud roar--make grass grow--bright ponds--many animals come and drink. Ah! no country like mine. My father have good house too--very warm--very cool--no rain come in--all built round square--high roof, hang long way over wall--room for walk up and down under it. Dere we all sit in middle of square, listen to stories--now we laugh, now we cry--sun go down, moon get up--star twinkle in dark sky, all so bright--still we talk--talk on--tell long stories--so happy--laugh still more. Ah! what is dat? Dreadful shriek--shriek--shriek--guns fire--we all start up-- some run one way, some anoder--house on fire--flames rise up--fierce men come in--cut down some--kill--kill--take women, children--many young men--some fight--dey all killed--my father killed--mother, brother, and me all carried away together--hands tied behind our backs--hundreds-- hundreds poor people, all drive away towards coast--then with long sticks and whips drive along--walk, walk--foot so sore--sleep at night under tree--all chained--up again before sun--walk, walk on all day-- cruel men beat us--some grow sick. My brother, him grow sick--lie down under tree--men beat him with stick--he look up--say, Oh, no beat me-- give one sigh, fall back and die. Dere he stay--many die like him--some lie down, and men beat him up again. On we go--see at last blue ocean-- put into Barracoon--all chained to iron bar--no move one side nor oder-- wait dere many days. Ship with white sail come at last--we all put on raft--carried to ship. Oh, how many--more, more come--ship no hold them--many sick--many die--thrown overboard--shark eat them. On we sail--oh, how hot--more, more die--many days no more--float on water like one log--den you come--white man, Spaniard, say you kill us--ah, no, no--you very good--we very happy--yes, massa, Peter Pongo very happy now." Such was Peter's brief account of himself. You will not consider it too much of a rigmarole. I was, I know, much interested when he told it me, and I had some little difficulty in making out what he meant. Soon after this we entered the magnificent harbour of Rio de Janeiro, which looks like a lake surrounded by lofty hills, the curious sugar-loaf rising above all. I have heard it said that it would contain all the ships in the world; but, large as it is, I have an idea that they would be very close packed if they were all brought together there. The city is large, built on level ground, or rather on a swamp, with mountains covered with trees rising directly behind it. There are numerous churches and fine palaces, and many large public buildings, but the white inhabitants are very brown and dirty, and the black, who seem to be very numerous, wear a remarkably small amount of clothing. Though the greater number are slaves, they are very merry slaves, and it was amusing to see one party meet another. They would stop, pull off their straw hats, make a series of mock polite bows, and some remarks which were sure to produce roars of laughter; how they would twist and turn about, and at last lean against each other's backs, that they might more at their ease indulge in fresh cachinnations. I have never seen any but blacks twist themselves into such curious attitudes. I cannot give a more lucid account of this imperial city, because I was so very little on shore. We had a great deal of work in getting the schooner refitted. All the poor blacks were taken on board the frigate, for we could not trust them on shore lest the Brazilians might have spirited them away, while the schooner was thoroughly cleansed and fumigated. We then took in an ample supply of water and provisions, and prepared to recross the Atlantic. The Brazilians could not understand why we took so much trouble about a few miserable blacks, and thought that we should have done much more wisely had we sold them to them at half-price. Mr Talbot had still charge of the prize, and having Sommers as his lieutenant, with Dickey Snookes and me, he was ordered to carry her back to Sierra Leone. We flattered ourselves that both My Lord and Polly looked at us with a considerable amount of envy as we wished them farewell. STORY ONE, CHAPTER 6. OVERBOARD. Once more we were at sea. Had it not been for the honour of the thing, we should have preferred being on board the frigate, for although I have a great respect for many Africans, I must say that it is not agreeable to have some hundreds of them as shipmates. We had happily very fine weather, and the poor people were able constantly to take the air on deck. They seemed to have forgotten all their sufferings and miseries, and would sing and dance and tell stories, and laugh all day long. I still continued to take Peter Pongo in hand, and began to teach him not only to speak but to read and write English. Snookes used to laugh at me at first, but when he saw the progress Peter made he wanted to teach him likewise. To this I said No, he might try and teach some one else, but he was not to interfere with my pupil. He agreed to this, but either he selected a stupid subject, or his mode of teaching was not good, for he made wonderfully little progress. For a week he was trying to teach his pupil Tommy Toad, as he called him, three letters of the alphabet, and at the end of the time he could not tell B from C. Mr Talbot took care also that we should not be idle, and kept us knotting and splicing and doing all sorts of work aloft. We were approaching our port, and were congratulating ourselves on having made a favourable passage, when two of our men were taken sick, then another and another, till our strength was sadly reduced. One poor fellow died, and there appeared every prospect of our losing more. The negroes were generally ready enough to work, but as they did not know how, they were of little use. Mr Talbot and Sommers worked away most heroically, attending to the sick, pulling and hauling, and often steering the vessel. Dickey and I did our best to help them. While the fine weather lasted our difficulties were not very great; at the same time, we were so short handed that the labour fell heavily on those who remained well. Dickey and I, though not very big or strong, from going constantly aloft, were of no little use, we flattered ourselves. One evening as we were approaching our destination, being closed hauled under all sail and standing on our course--Sommers was at the helm, Mr Talbot was below, and Dickey and I with two men were on deck, all we could muster for the watch--Sommers kept looking anxiously round the horizon, especially to the southward, where I observed some dark clouds banking up. As I watched them, they seemed suddenly to take it into their heads to roll rapidly onward, and down they bore upon us like a flock of sheep scouring over the downs. "All hands shorten sail," shouted Sommers. "Stafford. Rushforth, aloft lads, and furl the fore-topgallantsail." Up we sprang into the rigging. As yet the breeze was very light, and there was no difficulty in what we had to do, but a few minutes' delay might make the task impracticable. Dickey was spirited enough in reality. We lay along on the yard, and had begun to haul the sail, when, as I was stretching over to get a hold of the canvas to gather it up, I lost my balance, and over I went head first. I heard a shriek. It was from Dickey. He thought I should be killed. So should I, if I had had time to think about the matter; but providentially at that moment a sudden puff of wind bulged out the foretopsail to its utmost extent, and I striking it at the moment, away it sent me, as from a catapult, right over the bows, clear of the vessel. Had I struck the deck or bulwarks I should have been killed. I sank, but quickly coming to the surface, looked about me with very little hope of being saved, for there was the schooner flying on before the fast-increasing gale; and as I knew full well, with so few seamen on board, that it would take some time to put about to come to my relief. All this flashed rapidly through my mind. Farther and farther away flew the schooner, still I determined not to give in. I could swim pretty well, and I managed to throw off my jacket and kick off my shoes, and as only a thin pair of trousers and a shirt remained, I had no difficulty in keeping myself above water; but the knowledge that sharks abounded in those seas, and that any moment one of those horrid monsters might catch hold of my leg and haul me down, gave me very unpleasant sensations. I watched the receding vessel--moments seemed hours. There was no sign of her putting about. I at length was about to give way to despair, when my eye fell on an object floating between her and me. It was of some size--a grating I concluded--and I made out a black ball on the other side of it. The grating was moving towards me. I struck out to make it, and then I saw that it was pushed by a negro. "Keep up, Massa Pringle, keep up," said a voice in a cheery tone, which I recognised as that of Peter Pongo. My spirits returned. I had been a careless, thoughtless fellow, but I prayed then as I never prayed before, that the dreadful sharks might be kept from me, that I might reach the grating, and might by some means or other be saved. I felt a strength and courage I had not felt before. I struck out with all my power, still it seemed very very long before I reached the grating, and in my agitation I almost sank as I was catching hold of it. Peter Pongo had, however, sprang on to it and caught hold of me. I soon recovered. Words enough did not just then come into my head to thank him, but I took his hand, and he understood me. So far I was safe, for the grating was large enough to hold us both, but the sea was rapidly rising, and we might easily again be washed off. We looked about us, the schooner had not yet tacked, and the squall had already caught her. She was heeling over on her beam-ends, and everything seemed in confusion on board--yards swinging about, ropes flying away, and sails shivering to tatters. It was late in the evening, the sky was obscured, and darkness was coming on. The seas, too, began to dance wildly about us; their white tops, curling over and leaving dark cavern-looking hollows underneath, into which it seemed every instant that we must glide and be swallowed up. The prospect altogether was gloomy in the extreme. I felt how much I owed to poor Peter Pongo, who had voluntarily exposed himself to it for my sake, and I felt that had he not done so, I should long before this have been numbered with the dead. I still thought that we should both be saved. There were some bits of rope fastened to the grating, and by these we lashed ourselves to it, or we should inevitably have been washed off. We were constantly under water, but as it was warm that did not signify, as we soon again came to the surface. Our fear was lest some hungry shark should make a dart at us on those occasions and pick us off. Darker and darker it grew, the seas as they dashed wildly about made a loud prolonged roar, and at last, as we cast our eyes forward, not a glimpse of the schooner could we see. As the conviction of our forlorn condition broke upon me--I could not help it--I gave way to tears. I could not wring my hands because they were busy holding on to the grating. I thought of you, mother, and papa, and dear Harry, and our sisters, and that I should never see you any more; or old England, or the Hall, or Uncle Tom, or any of my friends. Peter wasn't so unhappy, because he had no friends remaining, and his native village was in ruins. The darkness came thicker and thicker down upon us. Nothing could we see but the dark waves rising up on every side against the sky. Not a star was visible. We no longer, indeed, knew in which direction to look for the schooner. It appeared, I remember exactly, as if we were being tossed about inside a black ball. I could not calculate how long a time had passed since I had fallen overboard, when I began to feel very hungry. I had had a bit of biscuit in my pocket, but that had been lost with my jacket, and now I had nothing to eat. I bore it for some time, and then I felt very faint, and thought that I could not possibly hold on any longer. Still I did my best not to let go, and every now and then Peter spoke to me and encouraged me, "Neber fear, massa," said he. "Him you tell me of, live up in sky, Him watch over us." We did not speak much, however; we could not, I do not know why. Oh, that was a dreary, awful night, not likely to be forgotten! Yet here I am alive. I shall never despair after that, and shall always feel, in however terrible a position I am placed, that a merciful God is watching over me, and that He will find means to save me. STORY ONE, CHAPTER 7. CAUSE FOR GRATITUDE. The longest night must come to an end. Many people, when kept awake in a comfortable bed with the toothache or some other pain, or perhaps with a little fever, think themselves very miserable, and much to be pitied. Peter Pongo and I were rather worse off, tossing about on the grating out on the Atlantic there, not having anything to eat, and not knowing any moment when we might be washed away from our unsteady raft. How we held on during all that night I cannot tell. The light came at last. We knew where the east was by seeing a bright red streak in the sky. We kept our eyes turned eagerly in that direction, for we fancied that there we should see the schooner. Our view, however, was very much circumscribed, and it was only as we were tossed up to the top of a sea that we could obtain even a glimpse of the horizon. We had scarcely time to assure ourselves whether or not there was a sail there before either a foam-topped sea jumped up before us, or we sank down again into the trough. We gazed, but we gazed in vain. No sail was to be seen. In spite of our almost hopeless position we became very hungry, and, what was worse, thirsty also. As the sun rose and struck down on our heads my thirst increased. I felt certain that I could not hold on much longer. Peter Pongo did not care so much about the hot sun, but he was very hungry. Suddenly I saw some red objects floating near us in the water. I looked again. Oh, how eager I felt to get them--they were oranges. They were too far off to reach. I was afraid to quit the grating. I had no strength left to swim. No sooner did Peter see them than he slid off the raft, and swimming round them collected a dozen or more before him, and pushing them on enabled me to pick them out of the water. I felt greatly relieved when he was once more safe on the grating. Oh, how delicious those oranges were! They were the means, I doubt not, of preserving our lives. They quenched our thirst, but they could not stop the pangs of hunger. The sun rose higher and higher, till we guessed it was noon. The wind went down, but the sea still continued to tumble us about most uncomfortably. Both of us were becoming very drowsy when we started up--a loud shout sounded in our ears. "Why, lads, you keep a bad look-out on board your craft," said a voice. We looked up--a large ship was passing us. "Don't fear--we'll pick you up," said the former speaker. I heard the cry of "helm's alee!" The yards swung round, and the ship was rounded too. By that time she seemed to have got a long way from us. Presently, however, we saw a boat dashing among the seas towards us. I thought that her bow would have come right down on our raft, but just then I felt a strong arm grasp me by the shoulder, and haul me in, while Peter was treated in the same way, and we were quickly alongside the ship. We were lifted on board. She appeared full of people, who looked very kindly at us. At first I could not speak a word; I did not know why. I thought that I was going to say something, but no sound was produced. The people who stood round remarked that I was a foreigner, and two or three people came up and addressed me in strange languages, but of course I was not more likely to answer them than I was my own countrymen. At last I heard Peter Pongo, who had been much concerned at my silence, say, "Him officer--speakie by and by." This remark seemed to satisfy those present, and in about an hour I was able to sit up and explain what had happened. I found that we had been rescued by an emigrant ship bound for the Cape of Good Hope. I was in hope that she might be able to land us at Sierra Leone, but I found that she could not possibly go out of her course; indeed, that we were much to the southward of that place, and that on to the Cape we also must go. In a very few minutes I became, I must own, reconciled to the necessity. When the cabin passengers found that I was a midshipman they rigged me out in very comfortable clothes, and clubbing together presented me with a sum of money, as they said, to enable me to live comfortably, till I could find my way back to my ship. When, also, they heard how gallantly Peter Pongo had rescued me, they gave him a handsome present. He could scarcely comprehend his good fortune, and as he looked at the money he evidently thought himself the owner of boundless wealth. I had the best of everything at the chief cabin table, and could not help thinking how pleasant it would be to live the life of a passenger on board an emigrant ship all the year round. I was therefore very much surprised to hear some of them grumbling from morning to night, complaining of having nothing to do, and wishing that the voyage was over. If they had lived in a midshipman's berth for a few months, I rather suspect that they would have thought themselves well off. I need not describe our passage to the Cape; it was a very pleasant one. I was very happy during the short time I remained at that curious old Dutch place, Cape Town. I saw the table-mountain and the tablecloth on the top of it, and then a sloop of war called there, and the commodore, who was there, ordered me and Peter Pongo a passage back to Sierra Leone. I was never idle, for I found ample employment in teaching Peter to read, and wonderful was the progress he made. He was a great favourite on board the corvette on account of his intelligence and amiable manners, and the gallant way in which he had preserved my life. On entering the harbour of Sierra Leone, there, to my great satisfaction, lay our schooner, with the pennant flying at her masthead, and the British ensign at her peak. I got a boat from the corvette, and at once pulled on board. I could see at a glance that the schooner had been turned into a man-of-war. She had been bought, as I afterwards found, into the service. I was in plain clothes, and Peter Pongo who accompanied me, was very nicely dressed, and no one would have recognised him as the little slave boy he had before appeared. Dickey Snookes looked over the side. I sprang up the side. "What do you want?" he asked. "To see that very important personage, Mr Algernon Godolphin Stafford, commonly known as Dickey Snookes," I answered, taking his hand. He started, and looked at me very hard, really gasping for breath, so astonished was he. "What! is it you yourself, Rushforth, my dear fellow?" he exclaimed. "I am indeed glad. We thought you were lost; gobbled up by a shark, or sunk to the bottom of the sea. Here, Sommers--here's Rushforth come to life again, and the black boy too." Sommers, who was below, came on deck, and received me most cordially. Mr Talbot, who had command of the schooner, now called the Liberia, was on shore. She was to sail, I found, the very next day for Rio Janeiro, to act as a tender to our ship. I consulted with Sommers what would be most to the advantage of Peter Pongo to do. He strongly advised his going to the college at Sierra Leone, where he would receive a very good education, and he undertook to arrange the matter. I had still the greater part of the money given me by the passengers of the emigrant ship, which I had kept for the purpose of devoting it to Peter's use. This, with what he had of his own, would enable him to make a fair start in life. Peter himself, though very sorry to leave me, was much pleased with the proposal. That very afternoon he and I accompanied Sommers on shore, when the whole matter was arranged in a very satisfactory way with some of the gentlemen connected with the college, who undertook to invest the sum I have mentioned for Peter's benefit. Peter burst into tears as I wished him good-bye, and I felt a very curious sensation about the throat. The next day we sailed for Rio. STORY ONE, CHAPTER 8. CONCLUSION. We had a fast run across the Atlantic. The news of my supposed loss had reached the frigate, and the kind way in which my uncle and the gun-room officers, as well as my messmates, received me, showed me that I had been regretted--of course a midshipman cannot expect to create any very great sorrow when he loses the number of his mess, as an admiral or a post-captain would. I did not meet with any other very extraordinary adventures during the remainder of the four years the frigate was in commission. I found the South American station a very pleasant one. I might have found Rio dull, but that I was constantly sent away in the Liberia, which did good service by capturing several slavers. We used to make her look like what she formerly was, and in that way she acted as a decoy, and entrapped several slavers who approached her without suspicion. We had one long trip round Cape Horn, and visited the coast of Chili and Peru. That was the most interesting we took. I feel that I have a right to be considered something of a sailor after having doubled Cape Horn, and crossed and re-crossed the Line. At length the frigate was ordered home; the schooner remained at Rio to do duty as before as a tender. On our way we touched at Sierra Leone. My uncle gave me leave to go on shore. I hurried off to the college, for I was anxious to hear something of my old friend and the preserver of my life. Three years had passed since I had seen him. He was then little more than fourteen. I was shown into a room where several pupil teachers were engaged in giving instruction to a number of young lads and boys. One teacher was evidently taking the lead of the rest. In very eloquent language he was explaining the truths of Christianity to a class of most attentive listeners. Though the skin of the speaker was black, the voice was that of an educated Englishman. I waited till he had ceased speaking. There is Mr Pongo, said the person who had conducted me to the room. His eye brightened as he saw me, and in an instant springing from his desk his hands were warmly pressed in mine. What immense progress he has made! how little I have advanced since we parted! I thought as I looked at him and heard him describe his work. I felt humbled and ashamed of myself. I thought over the matter, and resolved in future to employ my time, as far as I had the power, to the advantage of myself as well as that of others. Pongo came on board the frigate, and was received most kindly by my uncle and all the officers. He was, I found, training to become a missionary of the Gospel among his countrymen, and hoped ultimately to be ordained. I have since frequently heard from him. We spent only three days at Sierra Leone, and arrived at last safely in old England, and thus ended my first cruise. STORY TWO, CHAPTER 1. THE TRAVELLING TIN-MAN, FOUNDED ON FACT, BY MISS LESLIE. Micajah Warner was owner and cultivator of a small farm in one of the oldest, most fertile, and most beautiful counties of the State of Pennsylvania, not far from Maryland line. Micajah was a plain Quaker, and a man of quiet and primitive habits. He was totally devoid of all ambitious cravings after tracts of ten thousand acres, and he aspired not to the honour and glory of having his name given to a town in the western wilderness (though Warnerville would not have sounded badly), neither was he possessed of an unconquerable desire of becoming a judge, or of going to Congress. Therefore, he had always been able to resist the persuasions and example of those of his neighbours who left the home of their fathers, and the comforts of an old settlement, to seek a less tedious road to wealth and consequence, on the other side of the Allegany. He was satisfied with the possession of two hundred acres, one half of which he had lent (not given) to his son Israel, who expected shortly to be married to a very pretty and notable young woman in the neighbourhood, who was, however, no heiress. Upon this event, Israel was to be established in an old frame-house that had long since been abandoned by his father in favour of the substantial stone dwelling which the family occupied at the period of our story. The house had been taken up and transplanted to that part of the farm now allotted to Israel, and he very prudently deferred repairing it till he saw whether it survived its progress across the domain. But as it did not fall asunder during the journey, it was judged worthy of a new front-door, new window-panes, and new shingles to cover the vast chasms of the roof, all which improvements were made by Israel's own hands. This house was deposited in the vicinity of the upper branch of the creek, and conveniently near to a saw-mill, which had been built by Israel in person. Like all of her sect, whether in town or country, Bulah, the wife of Micajah Warner, was a woman of even temper, untiring industry, and great skill in housewifery. Her daughters, commonly called Amy and Orphy, were neat pretty little Quaker girls, extremely alert, and accustomed from their earliest childhood to assist in the work of the house. As her daughters were so handy and industrious, and only went half the year to school, Mrs Warner did not think it necessary to keep any other help than an indentured negro girl, named Chloe. Except the marriage of Israel, which was now in prospect; a flood in the neighbouring creek, which had raised the water so high as to wash away the brick oven from the side of the house; a tornado that carried off the roof of the old stable, and landed it whole in an adjoining clover field; and a visit from a family of beggars (an extraordinary phenomenon in the country), nothing occurred among the Warners for a long succession of years that had occasioned more than a month's talk of the mother, and a month's listening of the children. "They kept the noiseless tenor of their way." The occupations of Israel and his father (assisted occasionally by a few hired men) were, of course, those of the farm, except when Israel took a day now and then to attend to his saw-mill. With regard to domestic arrangements, everything connected with household affairs went on in the same course year after year except that, as the daughters of the family improved in capability of work, Chloe the black girl, retrograded. They washed on Monday (with the assistance of a woman, hired for the day), ironed on Tuesday, performed what they called "the little baking" on Wednesday, and "the big baking" on Friday; cleaned the house on Saturday, and clear-starched their book-muslin collars; rode on horseback to Friends' meeting on Sunday morning, and visited their neighbours on Sunday afternoon. It was the day after the one on which Israel and his bride-elect had passed meeting, and consequently, a month before the one fixed for the wedding, that something like an adventure fell among the Warner family. It was a beautiful evening at the close of August. The father and son had been all day in the meadows, mowing the second crop of grass; Mrs Warner was darning stockings in the porch, with her two daughters knitting on the bench beside her; Amy being then fourteen, and Orphy about twelve. Chloe was absent, having been borrowed by a relation, about five miles off, to do the general work of the house, while the family were engaged in preparing for a quilting frolic. "Come, girls," said Mrs Warner to her daughter, "it's just sun-down. The geese are coming home, and daddy and Israel will soon be here. Amy, do thee go down to the spring-house, and bring up the milk and butter, and Orphy, thee can set the table." The two girls put up their knitting (not, however, till they had knit to the middle of the needle), and in a short time, Amy was seen coming back from the spring-house, with a large pitcher of milk and a plate of butter. In the meantime, Orphy had drawn out the ponderous claw-footed walnut table that stood all summer in the porch, and spreading over it a brown linen cloth, placed in regular order their everyday supper equipage of pewter plates, earthen porringers, and iron spoons. The viands consisted of an immense round loaf of bread, nearly as large as a grindstone, and made of wheat and Indian meal, the half of a huge cheese, a piece of cold pork, a peach pie, an apple pie, and, as it had been baking day, there was the customary addition of a rice pudding, in an earthen pan of stupendous size. The last finish of the decorations of the table was a large bowl of cool water, placed near the seat occupied by the father of the family, who never could begin any of his meals without a copious draught of the pure element. In a few minutes, the farmer and his son made their appearance as they turned the angle of the peach-orchard fence, preceded by the geese, their usual _avant-couriers_, who went out every morning to feed in an old field beyond the meadows. As soon as Micajah and Israel had hung up their scythes and washed themselves at the pump, they sat down to table, the farmer in his own blue-painted, high-backed, high-armed chair, and Israel taking the seat always allotted to him--a low chair, the rushes of which having long since deserted the bottom, had been replaced by cross pieces of cloth listing, ingeniously interwoven with each other; and this being, according to the general opinion, the worst seat in the house, always fell to the share of the young man, who was usually passive on all occasions, and never seemed to consider himself entitled to the same accommodation as the rest of the family. Suddenly, the shrill blast of a tin trumpet resounded through the woods, that covered the hill in front of the house, to the great disturbance of the geese, who had settled themselves quietly for the night in their usual bivouac around the ruins of an old waggon. The Warners ceased their supper to listen and look; and they saw emerging from the woods, and rolling down the hill at a brisk trot, the cart of one of those itinerant tin merchants, who originate in New England, and travel from one end of the Union to the other, avoiding the cities, and seeking customers amongst the country people; who, besides buying their ware, always invite them to a meal and a bed. The tinman came blowing his horn to the steps of the porch, and there stopping his cart, addressed the farmer's wife in the true nasal twang that characterises the lower class of New Englanders, and inquired "if she had any notion of a bargain." She replied that "she believed she had no occasion for anything"--her customary answer to all such questions. But Israel, who looked into futurity, and entertained views towards his own housekeeping, stepped forward to the tin-cart, and began to take down and examine various mugs, pans, kettles, and coffee-pots--the latter particularly, as he had a passion for coffee, which he secretly determined to indulge both morning and evening, as soon as he was settled in his domicile. "Mother," said Amy, "I do wish thee would buy a new coffee-pot, for ours has been leaking all summer, and I have to stop it every morning with rye-meal. Thee knows we can give the old one to Israel." "To be sure," replied Mrs Warner, "it will do well enough for young beginners. But I cannot say I feel quite free to buy a new coffee-pot at this time. I must consider about it." "And there's the cullender," said Orphy, "it has such a big crack at the bottom, that when I am smashing the squashes for dinner, not only the water, but the squashes themselves drip through. Better give it to Israel, and get a new one for ourselves. What's this?" she continued, taking up a tin water-dipper. "That is for dipping warter out of the bucket," replied the tinman. "Oh, yes," cried Amy, "I've seen such a one at Rachel Johnson's. What a clever thing it is, with a good long handle, so that there's no danger of splashing the water on our clothes. Do buy it, mother. Thee knows that Israel can have the big calabash: I patched it myself, yesterday, where it was broken, and bound the edge with new tape, and it's now as good as ever." "I don't know," said the farmer, "that we want anything but a new lantern; for ours had the socket burnt out long before these moonlight nights, and it's dangerous work taking a candle into the stable." The tinman knowing that our plain old farmers, though extremely liberal of everything that is produced on their plantations, are, frequently, very tenacious of coin, and much averse to parting with actual money, recommended his wares more on account of their cheapness than their goodness; and, in fact, the price of most of the articles was two or three cents lower than they could be purchased for at the stores. Old Micajah thought there was no actual necessity for anything except the lantern; but his daughters were so importunate for the coffee-pot, the cullender, and the water-dipper, that finally all three were purchased and paid for. The tinman in vain endeavoured to prevail on Mrs Warner to buy some patty-pans, which the girls looked at with longing eyes; and he reminded them how pretty the pumpkin pies would look at their next quilting, baked in scollop-edged tins. But this purchase was peremptorily refused by the good Quaker woman, alleging that scollop-edged pies were all pride and vanity, and that, if properly made, they were quite good enough baked in round plates. The travelling merchant then produced divers boxes and phials of quack medicines, prepared at a celebrated manufactory of those articles, and duly sealed with the maker's own seal, and inscribed with his name in his own handwriting. Amongst these, he said, "there were certain cures for every complaint in natur'--draps for the agur, the toothache, and the rhumatiz; salves for ringworms, corns, frostbitten heels, and sore eyes; and pills for consumption and fall fevers; beside that most valuable of all physic, Swain's Wormifuge." The young people exclaimed with one accord against the purchase of any of the medicines; and business being over, the tinman was invited by the farmer to sit down and take his supper with the family--an invitation as freely accepted as given. The twilight was now closing, but the full moon had risen, and afforded sufficient light for the supper table in the porch. The tinman took a seat, and before Mrs Warner had finished her usual invitation to strangers, of--"reach to, and help thyself; we are poor hands at inviting, but thee's welcome to it, such as it is"--he had already cut himself a huge piece of the cold pork, and an enormous slice of bread. He next poured out a porringer of milk, to which he afterwards added one-third of the peach pie, and several platesful of rice pudding. He then said, "I suppose you haven't got no cider about the house;" and Israel, at his father's request, immediately brought up a pitcher of that liquor from the cellar. During supper the tinman entertained his entertainers with anecdotes of the roguery of his own countrymen, or rather, as he called them, his "statesmen." In his opinion of their general dishonesty, Mrs Warner most cordially joined. She related a story of an itinerant Yankee who persuaded her to empty some of her pillows and bolsters, under colour of exchanging with him old feathers for new; a thing which she acknowledged had puzzled her not a little, as she thought it strange that any man should bargain so badly for himself. He produced from his cart a bag of feathers which he declared were quite new; but after his departure she found that he had given her such short measure that she had not half enough to fill her ticking, and most of the feathers were proved, upon examination, to have belonged to chickens rather than to geese--nearly a whole cock's tail having been found amongst them. The farmer pointed into the open door of the house, and showed the tinman a large wooden clock put up without a case between two windows, the pendulum and the weights being "exposed and bare." This clock he had bought for ten dollars of a travelling Yankee, who had set out to supply the country with machines. It had only kept tolerable time for about two months, and had ever since been getting faster and faster, though it was still faithfully wound up every week. The hands were now going merrily round at the rate of ten miles an hour, and it never struck less than twelve. The Yankee tinman, with a candour that excited the admiration of the whole family, acknowledged that his Statesmen were the greatest rogues "on the face of the yearth;" and recounted instances of their trickery that would have startled the belief of any but the inexperienced and credulous people who were now listening to him. He told, for example, of sausages being brought to market in an eastern town, that, when purchased and prepared for frying, were found to be filled with chopped turnip and shreds of red flannel. For once, thought the Warners, we have found an honest Yankee. They sat a long time at table, and though the tinman seemed to talk all the time he was eating, the quantity of victuals that he caused to disappear surprised even Mrs Warner, accustomed as she was to the appetite of Israel. When the Yankee had at last completed his supper, the farmer invited him to stay all night; but he replied, "It was moonshiny, and fine cool travelling after a warm day; he preferred putting on towards Maryland as soon as his creature was rested, and had a feed." He then, without more ceremony, led his horse and cart into the barn-yard, and stopping near the stable door, fed the animal by the light of the moon, and carried him a bucket of water from the pump. The girls being reminded by their mother that it was late, and that the cows had long since come home, they took their pails and went out to milk, while she washed up the supper things. Whilst they were milking, the subsequent dialogue took place between them:-- _Orphy_. I know it's not right to notice strangers, and to be sure the man's welcome, but, Amy, did thee ever see anybody take victuals like this Yankee? _Amy_. Yes, but he didn't eat all he took, for I saw him slip a great chunk of bread and cheese into his pocket, and then a big piece of pie, while he was talking and making us laugh. _Orphy_. Well, I think a man must be very badly off to do such a thing. I wonder he did not ask for victuals to take away with him. He need not have been afraid. He must know that victuals is no object. And then he has travelled the roads long enough to be sure that he can get a meal for nothing at any house he stops at, as all the tinmen do. He must have seen us looking at his eating so much, and may be his pride is hurt, and so he's made up his mind, all of a sudden, to take his meals no more at people's houses. _Amy_. Then why can't he stop at a tavern, and pay for his victuals? _Orphy_. May be he don't want to spend his money in that trifling way. Who knows, he may be saving it up to help an old mother, or to buy back land, or something of that sort? I'll be bound he calculates upon eating nothing to-morrow but what he slipped off from our table. _Amy_. All he took will not last him a day. It's a pity of him, anyhow. _Orphy_. I wish he had not been too bashful to ask for victuals to take with him. _Amy_. And still he did not strike me at all as a bashful man. _Orphy_. Suppose we were just in a private way to put some victuals into his cart for him, without letting him know anything about it! Let's hide it among the tins, and how glad he'll be when he finds it to-morrow! _Amy_. So we will; that's an excellent notion! I never pitied anybody so much since the day the beggars came, which was five years ago last harvest; for I have kept count ever since; and I remember it as well as if it was yesterday. _Orphy_. We don't know what a hard thing it is to want victuals, as the Irish schoolmaster used to tell us when he saw us emptying pans of milk into the pig-trough, and turning the cows into the orchard to eat the heaps of apples lying under the trees. _Amy_. Yes, and it must be worse for an American to want victuals than for people from the old countries, who are used to it. After they had finished their milking, and strained and put away their milk, the kind-hearted little girls proceeded to accomplish their benevolent purpose. They took from the large wire safe in the cellar a pie, half a loaf of bread, and a great piece of cheese, and putting them into a basket, they went to the barn-yard, intending to tell their mother as soon as the tinman was gone, and not for one moment doubting her approval--since in the house of an American farmer, victuals, as Orphy justly observed, are no object. As they approached the barn-yard they saw, by the light of the moon, the Yankee coming away from his cart, and returning to the house. The girls crouched down behind the garden fence till he had passed, and then cautiously proceeded on their errand. They went to the back of the cart, intending to deposit their provisions, when they were startled at seeing something evidently alive moving behind the round opening of the linen cover; and in a moment the head of a little black child peeped out of the hole. The girls were so surprised that they stopped short and could not utter a word, and the young negro, evidently afraid of being seen, immediately popped down its head among the tins. "Amy, did thee see that?" asked Orphy in a low voice. "Yes, I did so," replied Amy; "what can the Yankee be doing with that little nigger? and why does he hide it? Let's go and ask the child." "No, no!" exclaimed Orphy, "the tinman will be angry." "And who cares if he is?" said Amy; "he has done something he is ashamed of, and we need not be afraid of him." They went quite close to the back of the cart, and Amy said, "Here, little snow-ball, show thyself and speak, and do not be afraid, for nobody's going to hurt thee." "How did thee come into this cart?" asked Orphy, "and why does the Yankee hide thee? Tell us all about it, and be sure not to speak above thy breath." The black child again peeped out of the hole, and looking cautiously round, said, "Are you quite sure the naughty man won't hear us?" "Quite sure," answered Amy; "but is thee boy or girl?" "I'm a little gal," replied the child; and with the characteristic volubility of her race she continued, "and my name's Dinah, and I'm five years old, and my daddy and mammy are free coloured people, and they lives a big piece off, and daddy works out, and mammy sells gingerbread and molasses-beer, and we have a sign over the door with a bottle and cake on it." _Amy_. But how did this man get hold of thee, if thy father and mother are free people? Thee can't be bound to him, or he need not hide thee. _Dinah_. Oh, I know, I ain't bounded to him; I expect he stole me. _Amy_. Stole thee! What, here in the free state of Pennsylvania? _Dinah_. I was out picking huckle-berries in the woods up the roads, and I strayed off a big piece from home. Then the tinman comed along, driving his cart, and I run close to the side of the road to look, as I always does when anybody goes by. So he told me to come into his cart, and he would give me a tin mug to put my huckle-berries in, and I might chuse it myself, and it would hold them a heap better than my old Indian basket. So I was very glad, and he lifted me up into the cart; and I choosed the very best and biggest tin mug he had, and emptied my huckle-berries into it. And then he told me he'd give me a ride in his cart, and then he set me far back on a box, and he whipped his creatur, and druv, and druv, and jolted me so, I tumbled all down among the tins. And then he picked me up, and tied me fast with his handkercher to one of the back posts of the cart, to keep me steady, he said. And then, for all I was steady, I couldn't help crying, and I wanted him to take me home to daddy and mammy. But he only sniggered at me, and said he wouldn't, and bid me hush; and then he got mad, and because I couldn't hush up just in a minute, he whipped me quite smart. _Orphy_. Poor little thing! _Dinah_. And then I got frightened, for he put on a wicked look, and said he'd kill me dead if I cried any more, or made the least noise. And so he has been carrying me along in his cart for two days and two nights, and he makes me hide away all the time, and he won't let nobody see me. And I hate him, and yesterday, when I know'd he didn't see me, I spit on the crown of his hat. _Amy_. Hush! Thee must never say thee hates anybody. _Dinah_. At night I sleeps upon the bag of feathers; and when he stops anywhere to eat, he comes sneaking to the back of the cart, and pokes in victuals (he has just now brung me some), and he tells me he wants me to be fat and good-looking. I was afeard he was going to sell me to the butcher, as Nac Willet did his fat calf, and I thought I'd axe him about it, and he laughed and told me he was going to sell me, sure enough, but not to a butcher. And I'm almost all the time very sorry, only sometimes I'm not; and then I should like to play with the tins, only he won't let me. I don't dare to cry out loud, for fear the naughty man would whip me, but I always moan when we're going through woods, and there's nobody in sight to hear me. He never lets me look out of the back of the cart, only when there's nobody to see me, and he won't let me sing even when I want to. And I moan most when I think of daddy and mammy, and how they are wondering what has become of me; and I think moaning does me good, only he stops me short. _Amy_. Now, Orphy, what is to be done? The tinman has, of course, kidnapped this black child to take her into Maryland, where he can sell her for a good price, as she is a fat, healthy-looking thing, and that is a slave state. Does thee think we ought to let him take her off. _Orphy_. No, indeed! I think I could feel free to fight for her myself; that is, if fighting was not forbidden by Friends. Yonder's Israel coming to turn the cows into the clover-field. Little girl, lie quiet, and don't offer to show thyself. Israel now advanced--"Well, girls," said he, "what's thee doing at the tinman's cart? Not meddling among his tins, I hope? Oh, the curiosity of women folks!" "Israel," said Amy, "step softly; we have something to show thee." The girls then lifted up the corner of the cart-cover, and displayed the little negro girl, crouched upon the bag of feathers--a part of his merchandise which the Yankee had not thought it expedient to produce, after hearing Mrs Warner's anecdote of one of his predecessors. The young man was much amazed; and his two sisters began both at once to relate to him the story of the black child. Israel looked almost indignant. His sisters said to him, "To be sure we won't let the Yankee carry this child off with, him." "I judge we won't," answered Israel. "Then," said Amy, "let us take her out of the cart, and hide her in the barn, or somewhere, till he is gone." "No," replied Israel, "I can't say I feel free to do that. It would be too much like stealing her over again; and I've no notion of evening myself to a Yankee in any of his ways. Put her down in the cart, and let her alone. I'll have no underhand work about her. Let's all go back to the house. Mother has got down all the broken crockery from the top shelf in the corner cupboard, and the Yankee's mending it with a sort of stuff like sticks of sealing-wax, that he carries about with him; and I dare say he'll get her to pay him more for it than the things are worth. But I say nothing." The girls cautioned Dinah not to let the tinman know that they had discovered her, and to keep herself perfectly quiet; and they then accompanied their brother to the house, feeling very fidgety and uneasy. They found the table covered with old bowls, old tea-pots, old sugar dishes, and old pitchers, the fractures of which the Yankee was cementing together, whilst Mrs Warner held the candle, and her husband viewed the operation with great curiosity. "Israel," said his mother, as he entered, "this friend is making the china as good as new, only that we can't help seeing the join; and we are going to give all the mended things to thee." The Yankee having finished his work, and been paid for it, said it was high time for him to be about starting, and he must go and look after his cart. He accordingly left the house for that purpose; and Israel, looking out at the end window, said, "I see he's not coming round to the house again, but going to try the short-cut into the back road. I'll go and see that he puts up the bars after him." Israel went out, and his sisters followed him, to see the tinman off. The Yankee came to the bars, leading his horse with the cart, and found Israel there before him. "Are you going to let down the bars for me?" said the tinman. "No," replied Israel, "I'm not going to be so polite; but I intend to see that thee carries off nothing more than belongs to thee." "What do you mean?" exclaimed the Yankee, changing colour. "I expect I can show thee," answered Israel. Then, stepping up to the back of the cart, and putting in his hands, he pulled out the black child, and held her up before him, saying, "Now, if thee offers to touch this girl, I think we shall be apt to differ." The tinman then advanced towards Israel, and, with a menacing look, raised his whip; but the fearless young Quaker (having consigned the little girl to his sisters, who held her between them) immediately broke a stick from a tree that grew near, and stood on the defensive, with a most steadfast look of calm resolution. The Yankee went close up to him, brandishing his whip, but, before he had time to strike, Israel, with the utmost coolness, and with great strength and dexterity, seized him by the collar, and swinging him round to some distance, flung him to the ground with such force as to stun him, saying, "Mind I don't call myself a fighting character, but if thee offers to get up I shall feel free to keep thee down." The tinman began to move, and the girls ran shrieking to the house for their father, dragging with them the little black girl, whose screams (as is usual with all of her colour) were the loudest of the loud. In an instant the stout old farmer was at the side of his son, and notwithstanding the struggle of the Yankee, they succeeded by main force in conveying him to the stable, into which they fastened him for the night. Early next morning, Israel and his father went to the nearest magistrate for a warrant and a constable, and were followed home by half the township. The county court was then in session; the tinman was tried, and convicted of having kidnapped a free black child, with the design of selling her as a slave in one of the Southern States; and he was punished by fine and imprisonment. The Warner family would have felt more compassion for him than they did, only that all the mended china fell to pieces again the next day, and his tins were so badly soldered that all their bottoms came out before the end of the month. Mrs Warner declared that she had done with Yankee tinmen for ever, and in short with all other Yankees. But the storekeeper, Philip Thompson, who was the sensible man of the neighbourhood, and took two Philadelphia newspapers, convinced her that some of the best and greatest men America can boast of, were natives of the New England States; and he even asserted, that in the course of his life (and his age did not exceed sixty-seven) he had met with no less than five perfectly honest Yankee tinmen; and besides being honest, two of them were not in the least impudent. Amongst the latter, however, he did not of course include a very handsome fellow, that a few years since made the tour of the United States with his tin-cart, calling himself the Boston Beauty, and wearing his own miniature round his neck. To conclude:--An advertisement having been inserted in several of the papers to designate where Dinah, the little black girl, was to be found, and the tinman's trial having also been noticed in the public prints, in about a fortnight her father and mother (two very decent free negroes) arrived to claim her, having walked all the way from their cottage at the extremity of the next county. They immediately identified her, and the meeting was most joyful to them and to her. They told at full length every particular of their anxious search after their child, which was ended by a gentleman bringing a newspaper to their house, containing the welcome intelligence that she was safe at Micajah Warner's. Amy and Orphy were desirous of retaining little Dinah in the family, and as the child's parents seemed very willing, the girls urged their mother to keep her instead of Chloe, who, they said, could very easily be made over to Israel. But to the astonishment of the whole family, Israel on this occasion proved refractory, declaring that he would not allow his wife to be plagued with such an imp as Chloe, and that he chose to have little Dinah herself, if her parents would bind her to him till she was eighteen. This affair was soon satisfactorily arranged. Israel was married at the appointed time, and took possession of the house near the saw-mill. He prospered; and in a few years was able to buy a farm of his own, and to build a stone-house on it. Dinah turned out extremely well, and the Warner family still talk of the night when she was discovered in the cart of the travelling tinman. STORY THREE, CHAPTER 1. THE BEAUTIFUL GATE. One morning, by break of day, old Josiah, who lived in the little cottage he had built, on the borders of the Great Forest, found his wife awake long before him--indeed she had scarcely closed her eyes that night; and she was ready to speak the moment his eyes opened; for she had promised their dear Tiny, their only child, that she would have a private talk with his father. So she said in a low, but distinct voice, as though she were talking to herself: "I have nursed him, and watched over him year after year. He has been like the sun shining in my path, and precious as a flower. There is not another like him. I love him better than I do my eyes. If he were away I might as well be blind." "That puts me in mind of what I've been dreaming," said the old man. "If I was only sure that he would come at last to the Beautiful Gate, I wouldn't say another word. But who can tell? And it it actually happened that he lost his sight--poor Tiny!" Josiah did not finish what he had begun to say, but hid his face in the bed-clothes, and then the good wife knew that he was weeping, and her own tears began to fall, and she could not say a word. After breakfast, when Josiah had gone off into the woods, the mother told Tiny of this bit of a conversation, but of course she could not explain about the dream. She knew no more what the boy's father had dreamed than you or I do, only she knew it was something curious and fanciful about the Beautiful Gate. Tiny listened with great interest to his mother's words, and he smiled as he kissed her when she had done speaking; and he said, "Wait till this evening, mother dear, and you shall see." And so she waited till the evening. When they were gathered around the kitchen-fire at night, Tiny took down the harp that hung on the kitchen wall. It had hung there ever since the day that Tiny was born. A poor old pilgrim gave it on that very day to Josiah in exchange for a loaf of bread. By that I do not mean that Josiah sold the loaf to the poor old hungry pilgrim. Josiah was too charitable to make a trade with a beggar. But the stranger said this strange thing to Josiah:--"I am near to death--I shall sing no more--I am going home. Keep my harp for me until a singer asks you for it, and promises you that he will sing unto the Lord a New Song. Give it to _him_; but be sure before you do so that he is worthy to sing the song unto the Lord." So Josiah had taken the harp home with him, and hung it on the wall, as I said, on the day that Tiny was born. And he waited for the coming of the poet who should have that wondrous song to sing. The father, when he saw what it was the boy would do, made a little move as if he would prevent him; but the mother playfully caught the old man's hand, and held it in hers, while she said aloud, "Only one song, Tiny. Your father's rest was disturbed last night--so get through with it as quickly as you can." At these last words the old man looked well pleased, for he fancied that his wife agreed with him, because he would not yet allow himself to believe that it was for his boy Tiny that the old pilgrim left the harp. And yet never was a sweeter voice than that of the young singer--old Josiah acknowledged that to himself, and old Josiah knew--he was a judge of such things, for all his life he had been singing songs in his heart. Yes! though you would never have imagined such a thing, that is, if you are in the habit of judging folks from their outward appearance--he had such a rough, wrinkled face, brown with freckles and tan, such coarse, shaggy grey hair, and such a short, crooked, awkward figure, you never would have guessed what songs he was for ever singing in his heart with his inward voice--they were songs which worldly people would never hear--only God and the angels heard them. Only God and the holy angels!--for as to Kitty, though she was Josiah's best earthly friend, though she knew he was such an excellent man, though she believed that there was not a better man than he in all the world, though year by year he had been growing lovelier and lovelier in her eyes--yes! though his hair, of course, became rougher and greyer, and his figure more bent, and his hands harder, and his teeth were nearly all gone!--growing lovelier because of his excellence, which increased with age as good wine does--still even she, who knew him better than any person on earth, even she knew him so little that she never so much as dreamed that this wonderful voice of Tiny's was but the echo of what had been going on in Josiah's heart and mind ever since he was himself a child! It was because he understood all this so very well that Josiah was troubled when he thought about his son. But to go back to the singer in the chimney-corner. Tiny sat alone on his side of the fire-place, in the little chair fashioned out of knotted twigs of oak which his father had made for him long ago. Opposite him were the old folks--the father with his arms folded on his broad chest, the mother knitting beside him, now and then casting a sidelong glance at the old man to see how it went with him. Wonderful was that song which Tiny sung! Even the winter wind seemed hushing its voice to hear it, and through the little windows looked the astonished moon. Josiah lifted up his eyes in great amazement as he heard it, as if he had altogether lost himself. It was nothing like his dream that Tiny sang, though to be sure it was all about a Beautiful Gate. Altogether about the Beautiful Gate! and of the young poet, who, passing through it, went his way into the great Temple of the World, singing his great songs, borne like a conqueror with a golden canopy carried over him, and a golden crown upon his head! Riding upon a white horse splendidly caparisoned, and crowds of people strewing multitudes of flowers before him! And of the lady who placed the victor's crown upon his head! She was by his side, more beautiful than any dream, rejoicing in his triumph, and leading him on towards her father's palace, the Beautiful Pearl Gates of which were thrown wide open, and the king himself with a bare head stood there on foot, to welcome the poet to the great feast. With this the song ended, and with a grand sweep of the silver strings Tiny gently arose, and hung the harp against the wall, and sat down again with folded hands and blushing cheek, half frightened, now when all was over, to think what he had done. The fire had vanished from his eyes, and the red glow of his cheek went following after; and if you had gone into Josiah's kitchen just then, you never would have guessed that _he_ was the enchanter who had been raising such a storm of splendid music. At first the old man could not speak--tears choked his words. "Ahem," said he once or twice, and he cleared his voice with the intention of speaking; but for a long time no words followed. At length he said, shaking his head,--"It isn't like what I dreamed--it isn't like what I dreamed;" and one would have supposed that the old man felt himself guilty of a sin by the way he looked at Tiny, it was with so very sad a look. "But beautifuller," said the mother, "beautifuller, isn't it, Josiah!" "Yes," answered Josiah; but still he spoke as if he had some secret misgiving--as if he were not quite sure that the beauty of the song had a right to do away with the sadness of his dream. "But," said Tiny, timidly, yet as if determined that he would have the matter quite settled now and for ever--"_am_ I a singer, father? _am_ I a poet?" Slowly came the answer--but it actually came, "Yes," with a broken voice and troubled look, and then the old man buried his face in his hands, as if he had pronounced some dreadful doom upon his only son. "Then," said Tiny boldly, rising from his seat, "I must go into the world. It says it needs me; and father, shall _your_ son hide himself when any one in need calls to him for help? I never would have gone, father, if you and mother had not said that I was a singer and a poet. For you I know would never deceive me; and I made a vow that if ever a time came when you should say that to me, then I would go. But this is my home, father and mother; I shall never get another. The wide world could not give me one. It is not rich enough to build me a home like this." "Don't speak in that way," said the old man; and he turned away that Tiny should not see his face, and he bent his head upon the back of his chair. Presently Tiny went softly up to him and laid his hand upon Josiah's arm, and his voice trembled while he said, "Dear father, are you angry with me?" "No, Tiny," said Josiah; "but what are you going to do with the world? You! ... my poor boy." "Good!" said Tiny with a loud, courageous voice--as if he were prepared, single handed, to fight all the evil there was in the world--"Good, father, or I would not have dared to take the pilgrim's harp down from the wall. I will sing," continued he still more hopefully, and looking up smiling into the old man's face--"I will sing for the sick and the weary, and cheer them; I will tell the people that God smiles on patient labour, and has a reward in store for the faithful, better than gold and rubies. I will get money for my songs, and feed the hungry; I will comfort the afflicted; I will--" "But," said Josiah solemnly, lifting his head from the back of the chair, and looking at Tiny as if he would read every thought there was in the boy's heart, "What did all that mean about the Beautiful Gate? Ah, my son, you were thinking more of your own pride and glory, than of the miserable and the poor!" "It was only to prove to you that I had a voice, and that I could sing, father," answered Tiny. Long gazed Josiah upon the face of his son as he heard this. Then he closed his eyes, and bent his head, and Tiny knew that he was praying. That was a solemn silence--you could have heard a pin drop on the kitchen floor. Presently the old man arose, and without speaking, went softly and took the harp down from the wall. "Take it," said he, handing it to Tiny, "Take it--it is yours. Do what you will. The Lord direct your goings." "Without your blessing, father?" said Tiny, stepping back and folding his arms upon his breast. He would not take the harp. Then, with both hands pressed on Tiny's head, the old man said, "May God bless you, my son." The old man's face was very calm then, and there was not a tear in his eyes as he spoke; he had begun to hope again. And he turned away from Tiny to comfort his poor wife. "Many, many years we lived alone before our Tiny came," said he, "and we were very happy; and we will be very happy yet, though he is going away. He is our all; but if the world needs him he shall go and serve it." Nothing more said Josiah, for his heart was full--too full for further speech. Well, Tiny the singer went sailing down the river one bright morning, on a boat loaded with wood, which in that part of the country is called lumber; his harp was on his arm, and the rest of his worldly goods upon his back. Tiny sat upon the top of the lumber, the most valuable part of the ship's load by far, though the seamen and the owner of the lumber thought him only a silly country lad, who was going down to the city, probably on a foolish errand. And Tiny looked at the banks of the river, right and left, as they floated down it, and thought of all the songs he would sing. All the first day it was of the poor he would help, of the desolate hearts he would cheer, of the weary lives he would encourage, that he thought; the world that had need of him should never find him hard of hearing when it called to him for help. And much he wondered--the poet Tiny sailing down the river towards the world, how it happened that the world with all its mighty riches, and its hosts on hosts of helpers, should ever stand in need of him! But though he wondered, his joy was none the less that it had happened so. On the first night he dreamed of pale faces growing rosy, and sad hearts becoming lighter, and weary hands strengthened, all by his own efforts. The world that had need of him felt itself better off on account of his labours! But on the second day of Tiny's journey other thoughts began to mingle with these. About his father and mother he thought, not in such a way as they would have been glad to know, but proudly and loftily! What could he do for them? Bring home a name that the world never mentioned except with praises and a blessing! And that thought made his cheek glow and his eyes flash, and at night he dreamed of a trumpeter shouting his name abroad, and going up the river to tell old Josiah how famous his boy had become in the earth! And the third day he dreamed, with his eyes wide open, the livelong day, of the Beautiful Gate, and the palace of Fame and Wealth to which it led! and he saw himself entering therein, and the multitude following him. He ate upon a throne, and wise men came with gifts, and offered them to him. Alas, poor Tiny! the world had already too many helpers thinking just such thoughts--it had need of no more coming with such offerings as these. Would no one tell him so? Would no one tell him that the new song to be sung unto our Lord was very different from this? At the end of the third day, Tiny's journey was ended... And he was landed in the world... Slowly the ship came sailing into harbour, and took its place among a thousand other ships, and Tiny went ashore. It was about sunset that Tiny found himself in the street of the great city. The workmen were going home from their labour, he thought at first; but could it be a city full of workmen? he asked himself as the crowd passed by him and he stood gazing on the poor. For he saw only the poor: now and then something dazzling and splendid went past, but if he turned again to discover what it was that made his eyes ache so with the brightness, the strange sight was lost in the crowd, and all he could see were pale faces, and hungry voices, and the half-clad forms of men, and women, and children. And then he said to himself with a groan, "The city is full of beggars." As he said that, another thought occurred to Tiny, and he unfastened his harp, and touched the strings. But in the din and roar of the city wagons, and in the confusion of voices, for every one seemed to be talking at the top of his voice, what chance had that harp-player of being heard? Still, though the crowd brushed past him as if there was no sound whatever in the harp strings, and no power at all in the hand that struck them, Tiny kept on playing, and presently he began to sing. It was _that_ they wanted--the living human voice, that trembled and grew strong again, that was sorrowful and joyous, that prayed and wept, and gave thanks, just as the human heart does! It was _that_ the people wanted; and so well did they know their want that the moment Tiny began to sing, the crowd going past him, heard his voice. And the people gathered round him, and more than one said to himself with joy, "Our brother has come at last!" They gathered around him--the poor, and lame, and sick, and blind; ragged children, weary men, desponding women, whose want and sorrow spoke from every look, and word, and dress. Closely they crowded around him; and angry voices were hushed, and troubled hearts for the moment forgot their trouble, and the weary forgot that another day of toil was before them. The pale woman nearest Tiny who held the little baby in her arms, felt its limbs growing colder and colder, and once she looked under her shawl and quickly laid her hand upon her darling's heart, but though she knew then that the child was dead, still she stood there smiling, and looking up towards heaven where Tiny's eyes so often looked, because at that very moment he was singing of the Father in Heaven, whose house of many mansions is large enough for all the world. It was strange to see the effect of Tiny's song upon those people! How bright their faces grew! kind words from a human heart are such an excellent medicine--they make such astonishing cures! You would have thought, had you been passing by the crowd that gathered around Tiny, you would have thought an angel had been promising some good thing to them. Whereas it was only this young Tiny, this country lad, who had journeyed from the shadow of the Great Forest, who was telling them of a good time surely coming! When he had finished his song, Tiny would have put up his harp, and gone his way, but that he could not do, because of the crowd. "Sing again!" the people cried,--the beggars and rich men together (it was a long time since they had spoken with one voice). Did I tell you that a number of rich men had gathered, like a sort of outer wall, around the crowd of poor people which stood next to Tiny? "Sing again," they cried; and loud and clear above the other voices said one, "There is but a solitary singer in the world that sings in such a strain as that. And he, I thought, was far away. Can this be he?" Then Tiny's heart leaped within him, hearing it, and he said to himself: "If my father and mother were but here to see it!" And he sang again-- and still for the poor, and the weary, and the sick, and the faint-hearted, until the street became as silent as a church where the minister is saying, "Glory be unto the Father." And indeed it was just then a sacred temple, where a sacred voice was preaching in a most sacred cause. I'm sure you know by this time what the "cause" was? And while he sang, the rich men of the outer circle were busy among themselves, even while they listened, and presently the person who had before spoken, made his way through the crowd, carrying a great purse filled with silver, and he said, "You are the poet himself--do with this what you think best. We have a long time been looking for you in the world. Come home with me, and dwell in my house, oh, Poet, I pray you." Tiny took the heavy purse, and looked at it, and from it to the people. Then said he--oh, what melody was in his voice, how sweet his words!--"None of you but are my friends--you are more--my brothers and sisters. Come and tell me how much you need." As he spoke, he looked at the woman who stood nearest him, with the dead baby in her arms. Her eyes met his, and she threw back the old, ragged shawl, and showed him her little child. "Give me," said she, "only enough to bury it. I want nothing for myself. I had nothing but my baby to care for." The poet bowed his head over the little one, and fast his tears fell on the poor, pale face, and like pearls the tears shone on the soft, white cheek, while he whispered in the ear of the woman, "Their angels do always behold the face of Our Father." And he gave her what she needed, and gently covered the baby's face again with the tattered shawl, and the mother went away. Then a child came up and said--now this was a poor street beggar, remember, a boy whom people called _as bold as a thief_--he came and looked at Tiny, and said gently, as if speaking to an elder brother whom he loved and trusted: "My father and mother are dead; I have a little brother and sister at home, and they depend on me; I have been trying to get work, but no one believes my story. I would like to take a loaf of bread home to them." And Tiny, looking at the boy, seemed to read his heart, and he said, laying his hand on the poor fellow's shoulder, "Be always as patient, and gentle, and believing as you are now, and you will have bread for them and to spare, without fear." Then came an old, old man bending on his staff, and he spoke out sharply, as if he were half starved, and all he said was, "Bread!" and with that he held out his hand as if all he had to do was to ask, in order to get what he wanted. For a moment Tiny made him no answer, and some persons who had heard the demand, and saw that Tiny gave him nothing, began to laugh. But at that sound Tiny rebuked them with his look, and put his hand into the purse. The old man saw all this, and he said, "I am tired of begging, I am tired of saying, `for mercy's sake give to me,'--for people don't have mercy--they know nothing about being merciful, and they don't care for mercy's sake. I don't beg of you, Mr Poet. I only ask you as if you were my son, and that's all. Give me bread. I'm starving." And Tiny said, "For my dear father's sake take this--God forbid that _I_ should ever be deaf when an old man with a wrinkled face and white hair speaks to me." Afar off stood a young girl looking at the poet. Tiny saw her, and that she needed something of him, though she did not come and ask, and so he beckoned to her. She came at that, and as she drew nearer he fancied that she had been weeping, and that her grief had kept her back. She had wept so violently that when Tiny spoke to her and said, "What is it?" she could not answer him. But at length, while he waited so patiently, she made a great effort, and controlled herself and said, "My mother!" That was all she said--and Tiny asked no more. He knew that some great grief had fallen on her--that was all he needed to know; he laid his hand in hers, and turned away before she could thank him, but he left with her a word that he had spoken which had power to comfort her long after the money he gave her was all gone--long after the day when her poor mother had no more need for bread. "When my father and mother forsake me, then the Lord will lift me up." That was what he whispered to her as he left her. And thus he went through that crowd of miserable people, comforting them all. But it was remarkable how much more value the poor folks seemed to put upon his word than they did upon the money he gave them, much as they stood in need of that! I wonder if you ever thought about the wonderful power there is in words? At length, when the purse was empty, he stood alone in the midst of the circle of rich men who had given him the silver to distribute as he would. Then the man who handed him the purse went up and said to Tiny, "Poet, come home with me. You are come at last! the city ought to be illuminated--we have stood so long in need of you, expecting you." So Tiny, believing what the rich man said, went home with the stranger-- and for a long time he abode in that house. And rich men feasted Tiny, and taught him to drink wine: and great men praised him, and flattered him till he believed that their praise was precious above all things, and that he could not live without it! Was not that absurd? Nay, children, was not that most terrible, that our dear Tiny should ever have been tempted to believe such wicked trash and falsehood! He, too, who was to sing that sweet and holy New Song to the Lord! They surrounded him day and night, these rich, gay men, and these great men, and they fed upon the delicious thoughts he gave them, and they kept him in such a whirl of pleasure that he had no time to work for the poor, and hardly any time to think of them--excepting at the dead of night, when he sometimes fancied or dreamed that the old pilgrim owner of the harp had come, or would come quickly, and take it away from him. At these times poor Tiny would make excellent resolutions, but the next day was sure to see them broken. He seemed no stronger when he attempted to keep them than a poor little bird who is determined that he will be free, and so goes driving against the wires of his cage! When Tiny spoke with his friend, as he sometimes did, about the plan with which he had come into the world, his friend always made him very polite answers, and good promises--oh, yes, certainly he would do all that _he_ could to help him on in such an excellent cause! But the fact was, he did everything to prevent him. I wonder if anybody else has got any such friend in his heart, or in his house, as our Tiny found in his very first walk through that city street? If I knew of any one that had, I should say, look out for him! Beware of him. And so Tiny lived, and presently it happened just as you would expect; his conscience troubled him no longer; he only sang such songs on feast days, and holidays, and even in the church, as his companions liked; and he became very well pleased with his employment! That was the very worst of it. I shall tell you in a very few words what happened next. Tiny suddenly fell ill of a very curious disease, which caused all his rich friends to forsake him, and he almost died of it. In those days his only helper was a poor young beggar girl--one of those persons whom he had relieved by his songs, and by the money he distributed from the rich man's purse that happy day,--the little girl who had wept so bitterly, and whose only word was, when he questioned her,--"My mother!" He recovered from his disease in time, but all his old acquaintances had forsaken him; and he must have felt their loss exceedingly, for now he had an attack of a desperate complaint, which I pray you may never have!--called Despair--and Tiny crept away from the sight of all men, into a garret, and thought that he would die there. A garret at Home is a very different place from a garret in the World; and so our poet thought, when he compared this miserable, dismal place with the little attic far, far away in his own father's cottage, where he was next-door neighbour to the swallows who slept in their little mud cabins under the cottage eaves! Never in his life was Tiny so lonely. He had come to help the World, said he, talking to himself, and the World cared not half so much about it as it would about the doings of a wonderful "learned pig," or the extraordinary spectacle of a man cutting profiles with his toes in black paper! "Have you been all the while helping the World, and is this all the pay you get?" said the girl, his poor friend, who remembered what he had done for her, when she was in her worst need. "Yes," said Tiny; but there was no truth in what he said. He did not intend to speak falsely, however,--which proves the sad pass he had arrived at; he did not even know when he was deceiving himself! And when Tiny said, that "yes," what do you suppose he thought of? Not of all the precious time that he had wasted--not of the Pilgrim's Harp--not of the promises he had made his father--nor of the great hope of the poor which he had no cruelly disappointed--but only of the evil fortune which had fallen on himself! This beggar girl to wait on him, instead of the most beautiful lady in the world for a crown bearer! This garret for a home, instead of a place at the king's table. And more fiercely than ever raged that sickness called Despair. But at length his strength began to return to him a little, and then for the first time poor Tiny discovered that he was blind. And all the days and weeks that came and went were like one long, dark night. In those dreadful days our singer had nothing to do but to think, and the little beggar girl had nothing to do but to beg; for Tiny's charity and goodness of heart seemed to have all forsaken him, and one day in his anger he drove her out of his garret, and bade her return no more, for that the very thought of her was hateful to him. In doing this, Tiny brought a terrible calamity upon himself; he fell against his harp and broke it. After that, while he sat pondering on the sad plight he was in, hungry and cold and blind, he suddenly started up. A new thought had come to him. "I will go home to my father's house," he said. "There is no other way for me. Oh, my mother!" and bitterly he wept as he pronounced that name, and thought how little like her tender and serene love was the love of the best of all the friends he had found in that great city of the world. As he started up so quickly in a sort of frenzy, his foot struck against the broken harp, and instantly the instrument gave forth a wailing sound, that pierced the poet's heart. He lifted up the harp: alas! it was _so_ broken he could do nothing with it; from his hands it fell back upon the floor where it had lain neglected, forgotten, so long. But Tiny's heart was now fairly awakened, and stooping to the floor, he raised the precious treasure again. "I will carry back the broken fragments," said he; "they shall go back to my father with me. The harp is his; I can do nothing more with it for ever. I have ruined it; I have done nothing for the world, as I promised him. A fine thing it is for me to go back to him in this dreadful plight. But if he says to me, `Thou art no son of mine,' I will say, `Father, I am no more _worthy_ to be called thy son; make me thy hired servant--only pay me in love.'" And so saying, Tiny began to descend from his attic. Carefully he went down the stairs, ready to ask help of the first person whose voice he should hear. But he had groped his way as far as the street door, before he met a soul. As he stepped upon the threshold, and was about to move on into the street, a voice--a child's voice--said to him-- "I'm very hungry, sir." The patient tone of the speaker arrested Tiny's steps, and he pondered a moment. It was the hearts that belonged to voices like this, which he had vowed to help! His own heart sunk within him at that thought. "Wretched soul that I am," said he to himself, thinking of the opportunities which he had lost. But to the child he said-- "I'm blinder than a bat, and hungry, too. So I'm worse off than you are. Do you live about here?" "Just round the corner," said the little girl. "Is there a physician near here?" he asked next; for a now thought--a new hope, rather--had come into his heart. "Yes, sir--very near. I know where it is," said the child. "I got him once for my mother." "If you will lead me to him," said Tiny, his voice broken as his heart was, "I will do a good turn for you. You won't be the loser by it. Who takes care of you?" "Of me, sir?" asked the girl, as if surprised that he should think that any one took care of her. "Nobody. I'm all alone." "Alone! alone!" repeated Tiny: "your hand is very little; you are a mite of a girl to be alone." "They're all dead but me, every one of 'em. Yes, sir, they are." "No mother?" said Tiny, with a choking voice--thinking of the kind heart and tender loving eyes away off in the lonely little cottage on the border of the forest--"no mother, little girl? Was _that_ what you said?" "Dead," replied the child. "Did you love her?" asked Tiny, the poet, while his heart wept burning tears. The girl said not a word, but Tiny heard her sob, and held her hand close in his own, as though he would protect her, even if he were blind, while he said aloud-- "Lead me to the physician, little friend." Quietly and swiftly she led him, and as they went, Tiny never once thought, What if any of the great folks who once courted and praised him should see him led on foot through the streets by a little beggar girl, himself looking hardly more respectable than the poorest of all beggars! "Shall I ring the door bell?" asked she, at length coming to a sudden halt. "King it," said he. But before she could do that the house door opened, and the physician himself appeared, prepared for a drive; his carriage was already in waiting at the door. "Here he is," exclaimed the girl; and at the same moment a gruff voice demanded-- "What do you want, you two, eh? Speak quick, for I'm off." In one word Tiny told what it was he wanted. "Blind, eh?" said the doctor, stooping and looking into the pale face of the unhappy singer; "_born_ blind! I can do nothing for you. John! drive the horses away from that curb-stone." He stepped forward, as he spoke, as if about to leave the children, but he stood still again the next minute, arrested by the sound of Tiny's indignant voice. "Born blind!" the singer cried; "no more than you were, sir. If you knew how to use your eyes to any good purpose, you never would say such a thing. Since I was ill I've been blind, but never a moment before." "Come into the house a minute," said the doctor, who had been carefully studying Tiny's face during the last few seconds. "Come in, and I'll soon settle that point for you." "For yourself, you mean," said Tiny, in an under tone, as he and the beggar girl went in. "What's that you carry?" said the physician. "Lay down your pack for a moment." But Tiny would not do that. He had taken up his harp in much the same spirit as if it had been a cross, and he was determined never to lay it down again until he came to his father's house. So he merely said, "Don't call it a pack; it was a harp once, but now it's only some bits of wood and cord." "Broken!" said the doctor; and you would have been in doubt, if you had heard him, as to whether he meant Tiny's harp or heart. "Broken! ah, ...;" and he seemed to get a little new light on the subject when he looked again into Tiny's face. "Ah," he said again, and still more thoughtfully; "now! about those eyes. You went into a great rage just now when I told you that you were born blind. On a closer examination of them, I am still tempted to think that if you were not born blind, you never had the full use of your eyes. How are you going to prove to me that I'm mistaken? If you can prove that it came after your sickness,"--he hesitated a little--"I'm not so sure but that something might be done for you." At that Tiny's anger was not much lessened; and he was in doubt as to what he should do, until the child said to him, "Sing to him about your mother." The words had the effect of a broad ray of light streaming into a dark and dismal place, and without another word Tiny began to sing. His voice was faint and broken; it never once rose into a high strain of pride, as if he had his merits as a singer to support; he sung with tears, and such pathos as singer never did before, of his Mother and her Love. By the words of his song he brought her there into that very room, with her good and pleasant looks, her loving eyes and tender smile, so that they who heard could also behold her. He sung of all that she had been to him in his childhood, of the brightness she made in their home, of all that she had done for him, and concluded with the prayerful longing that his eyes might once more receive their sight, that so he might behold her. "The doctor is weeping," whispered the little girl in Tiny's ear. It was a long time before the doctor spoke; but at length he arose and laid some pieces of silver in Tiny's hand; and he said, "I cannot help you. But what you have to do is to go to the Beautiful Gate, and there you will find a physician famous for the cure of such cases as yours. True enough you weren't _born_ blind--far from it. I ask your pardon for the mistake. I wish there were more blind in the way you were. Go your way to the Beautiful Gate." As the doctor spoke he arose and walked quickly towards the door, and the children followed him out. All at once Tiny recollected that they had yet one very important thing to learn, and he cried out-- "But, sir, which way shall we go in order to arrive at the Beautiful Gate?" Too late! while he spoke the doctor stepped into his carriage, the coachman closed the door with a loud bang and drove away, and Tiny and the little girl were left quite in the dark as to what they should do next. For a long time they stood still in perfect silence. At last Tiny said, "Lead the way, little girl, for I am blind and cannot see. Come! we will go on, if you have an idea that we shall ever come to the BEAUTIFUL GATE." "In all my life I never heard of it before," said she sadly. "But I have," cried Tiny, trying to keep his courage up by speaking brave words. "Come on with me!" yet, in spite of his words, he held fast to the girl's hand, and she led him down the street. Presently, towards nightfall, they came up to a crowd of people, a mob of men and boys who were quarrelling. Well did Tiny understand the angry sound; and, as for the girl walking with him, she trembled with fear, and said, "Shall we turn down this street? They are having a terrible fight. I am afraid you will be hurt." "Not I," said Tiny. "Is the sun near setting?" "It has set," said the girl. "And does the red light shine on the men's faces?" asked the poet. "Yes," answered the girl, wondering. "On the night when I first came into this city's streets it was so. My harp was perfect then; but it was the voice, and not the other music, that the people eared for, when I sang. Wait now." The little girl obediently stood still, and all at once Tiny began to sing. None of his gay songs sung at feasts, and revels, or on holidays, but a song of peace, as grand and solemn as a psalm; and the quarrelling men and boys stood still and listened, and, before the song was ended, the ringleaders of the fight had crept away in shame. Other voices then began to shout in praise of the young stranger, who with a few simple words had stilled their angry passions. "The brave fellow is blind," said they; "we will do something good for him!" And one, and another, and another, cried out, "Come with us, and we will do you good." But instead of answering a word, Tiny went his way as if he were deaf as a post, as well as blind as a bat, and by his side, holding his hand close, went the little beggar girl. Until they came in the increasing darkness to a narrow, crooked lane, and met a woman who was running, crying, with a young child in her arms. "What is this?" asked Tiny. "A woman, pale as death, with a child in her arms," said the girl. "Wait!" shouted Tiny, stopping just before the woman. His cry so astonished her that she stood, in an instant, as still as a statue. "What is it that you want?" "Food! medicine! clothes! a home!" answered she, with a loud cry. "Give me the child--take this--get what you need, and I will wait here with the little one," said Tiny. Without a word the woman gave her child--it was a poor little cripple-- into his arms; and then she went on to obey him; and softly on the evening air, in that damp, dismal lane, arose the songs which Tiny sang to soothe and comfort the poor little creature. And in his arms it slept, hushed by the melody, a slumber such as had not for a long time visited his eyes. Wonderful singer! blessed songs! sung for a wretched sickly stranger, who could not even thank him! But you think they died away upon the air, those songs? that they did no other good than merely hushing a hungry child to sleep? A student in an attic heard the song, and smiled, and murmured to himself, "That is like having a long walk in in the woods, and hearing all the birds sing." A sick girl, who had writhed upon her bed in pain all the day, heard the gentle singing voice, and it was like a charm upon her--she lay resting in a sweet calm, and said, "Hark! it is an angel!" A blind old man started up from a troubled slumber, and smiled a happy smile that said as plain as any voice, "It gives me back my youth, my children, and my country home;" and he smiled again and again, and listened at his window, scarcely daring to breathe lest he should lose a single word. A baby clad in rags, and sheltered from the cold with them, a baby in its cradle--what do you think that cradle was? as truly as you live, nothing but a box such as a merchant packs his goods in! that baby, sleeping, heard it, and a light like sunshine spread over its pretty face. A thief skulking along in the shadow of the great high building, heard that voice and was struck to the heart, and crept back to his den, and did no wicked thing that night. A prisoner who was condemned to die heard it in his cell near by, and he forgot his chains, and dreamed that he was once more innocent and free--a boy playing with his mates, and loved and trusted by them. At length the mother of the crippled infant came back, and brought food for her child, and a warm blanket for it, and she, and Tiny, and the beggar girl, Tiny's companion, ate their supper there upon the sidewalk of that dark, narrow lane, and then they went their separate ways--Tiny and his friend, taking the poor woman's blessing with them, going in one direction, and the mother and her baby in another, but they all slept in the street that night. The next morning by daybreak Tiny was again on his way down that same long, narrow, dingy street, the little girl still walking by his side. Swiftly they walked, and in silence, like persons who are sure of their destination, and know that they are in the right way, though they had not said a word to each other on that subject since they set out in the path. "What is that?" at length asked Tiny, stopping short in the street. "A tolling bell," said the girl. "Do you see a funeral?" "Yes; don't you?" Tiny made no answer at first; at length he said, "Let us go into the churchyard;" and he waited for the beggar girl to lead the way, which she did, and together they went in at the open churchyard gate. As they did so, a clergyman was thanking the friends who had kindly come to help in burying the mother of orphan children. Tiny heard that word, and he said to the girl, whose name, I ought long ago to have told you, was Grace--he said, "Are there many friends with the children?" "No," she answered sadly. "Are the people poor?" he asked. "Yes, very poor," said she. Then Tiny stepped forward when the clergyman had done speaking, and raised a Hymn for the Dead, and a prayer to the Father of the fatherless. When he had made an end, he stepped back again, and took the hand of Grace, and walked away with her in the deep silence, for everybody in the churchyard was weeping. But as they went through the gate the silence was broken, and Tiny heard the clergyman saying, "Weep no longer, children; my house shall be your home, my wife shall be your mother. Come, let us go back to our home." And Grace and Tiny went their way. On, and on, and on, through the narrow filthy street, out into the open country,--through a desert, and a forest; and it seemed as if poor Tiny would sing his very life away. For wherever those appeared who seemed to need the voice of human pity, or brotherly love, or any act of charity, the voice and Hand of Tiny were upraised. And every hour, whichever way he went, he found THE WORLD HAD NEED OF HIM! They had no better guide than that with which they set out on their search for the BEAUTIFUL GATE. But Tiny's heart was opened, and it led him wherever there was misery, and want, and sin, and grief; and flowers grew up in the path he trod, and sparkling springs burst forth in desert places. And then as to his blindness. Fast he held by the hand of the beggar girl as they went on their way together, but the film was withdrawing from his eye-balls. When he turned them up towards the heaven, if they could not yet discern that, they could get a glimpse of the earth! So he said within himself, "Surely we are in the right way; we shall yet come to the Beautiful Gate, and I shall have my sight again. Then will I hasten to my father's house, and when all is forgiven me, I will say to my mother, Receive this child I bring thee for a daughter, for she has been my guide through a weary way; and I know that my mother will love my little sister Grace." "And what then?" asked a voice in Tiny's soul, "_What_ then wilt thou do?" "Labour till I die!" exclaimed Tiny aloud, with flashing eyes. "But for what, Poet, wilt thou labour?" "FOR THE POOR WORLD THAT NEEDS ME," bravely cried he with a mighty voice. "Ah," whispered something faintly in his ear, with a taunting voice that pierced his heart like a sharp sword--"Ah, you said that once before; and fine work you made of it!" Tiny made no answer to this taunt, with words, but with all the strength of his great poet mind he cried again, "For the poor world that needs me!" and the vow was registered in Heaven, and angels were sent to strengthen him in that determination--him who was to sing the New Song to the Lord. A long way further Grace and Tiny walked together on their journey; they walked in silence, thinking so fast that, without knowing it, they were almost on a run in the attempt their feet were making to keep pace with their thoughts. At length Grace broke the silence with a sudden cry-- "Oh, Tiny! what is this?" Tiny looked up at the sound of her voice, and then he stood stock still as if he were turned to stone. "Oh, Tiny! can you see?" again exclaimed Grace, who was watching her companion's face in a great wonder; it became so changed all at once. "Oh, Tiny, Tiny, can you see?" she cried again, in terror, for he did not answer her, but grew paler and paler, swaying to and fro like a reed in the wind, until he fell like one dead upon the ground, saying--"My home! my home! and the Beautiful Gate is here!" Just then an old man came slowly from the forest, near to which they had come in their journey. His head was bent, he moved slowly like one in troubled thought, and as he walked he said to himself, "Long have I toiled, bringing these forest trees into this shape; and people know what I have done--of their own free will they call it a Beautiful Gate. But oh, if I could only find the blind one lying before it, ready to be carried through it to his mother! then, indeed, it would be beautiful to me. Oh Tiny! oh my child, when wilt thou return from thy long wanderings?" "Please, sir," said a child's voice--it was the voice of our little Grace, you know--"please, sir, will you come and help me?" and she ran back to the place where Tiny lay. Swiftly as a bird on wing went Josiah with the child. Without a word he lifted up the senseless Poet and the Broken Harp; and with the precious burden passed on through the Beautiful Gate of the Forest, into the Cottage Home--Grace following him! Once more the Broken Harp hung on the kitchen wall--no longer broken. Once more the swallows and the poet slept side by side, in their comfortable nests. Once more old Kitty's eyes grew bright. Once more Josiah smiled. Again a singing voice went echoing through the world, working miracles of good. Rich men heard it and opened their purses. Proud men heard it and grew humble. Angry voices heard it and grew soft. Wicked spirits heard it and grew beautiful in charities. The sick, and sad, and desolate heard it and were at peace. Mourners heard it and rejoiced. The songs that voice sang, echoed through the churches, through the streets; and by ten thousand thousand firesides they were sung again and yet again. But all the while the great heart, the mighty, loving human heart from which they came, was nestled in that little nest of home on the border of the forest, far away from all the world's temptations, in the safe shelter of a household's love. STORY FOUR, CHAPTER 1. THE CHIMAERA, BY N. HAWTHORNE. Once in the old, old times (for all the strange things which I tell you about happened long before anybody can remember), a fountain gushed out of a hill-side in the marvellous land of Greece; and, for aught I know, after so many thousand years, it is still gushing out of the very self-same spot. At any rate, there was the pleasant fountain welling freshly forth and sparkling adown the hillside, in the golden sunset, when a handsome young man named Bellerophon drew near its margin. In his hand he held a bridle, studded with brilliant gems, and adorned with a golden bit. Seeing an old man, and another of middle age, and a little boy, near the fountain, and like wise a maiden, who was dipping up some of the water in a pitcher, he paused, and begged that he might refresh himself with a draught. "This is very delicious water," he said to the maiden, as he rinsed and filled her pitcher, after drinking out of it. "Will you be kind enough to tell me whether the fountain has any name?" "Yes; it is called the Fountain of Pirene," answered the maiden; and then she added, "My grandmother has told me that this clear fountain was once a beautiful woman, and when her son was killed by the arrows of the huntress Diana, she melted all away into tears. And so the water, which you find so cool and sweet, is the sorrow of that poor mother's heart!" "I should not have dreamed," observed the young stranger, "that so clear a well-spring, with its gush and gurgle, and its cheery dance out of the shade into the sunlight, had so much as one tear-drop in its bosom! And this, then, is Pirene? I thank you, pretty maiden, for telling me its name. I have come from a far-away country to find this very spot." A middle-aged country fellow (he had driven his cow to drink out of the spring) stared hard at young Bellerophon, and at the handsome bridle which he carried in his hand. "The water-courses must be getting low, friend, in your part of the world," remarked he, "if you come so far only to find the Fountain of Pirene. But, pray, have you lost a horse? I see you carry the bridle in your hand; and a very pretty one it is, with that double row of bright stones upon it. If the horse was as fine as the bridle, you are much to be pitied for losing him." "I have lost no horse," said Bellerophon, with a smile. "But I happen to be seeking a very famous one, which, as wise people have informed me, must be found hereabouts, if anywhere. Do you know whether the winged horse Pegasus still haunts the Fountain of Pirene, as he used to do, in your forefathers' days?" But then the country fellow laughed. Some of you, my little friends, have probably heard that this Pegasus was a snow-white steed, with beautiful silvery wings, who spent most of his time on the summit of Mount Helicon. He was as wild, and as swift, and as buoyant, in his flight through the air, as any eagle that ever soared into the clouds. There was nothing else like him in the world. He had no mate; he had never been backed or bridled by a master; and, for many a long year, he led a solitary and a happy life. Oh, how fine a thing it is to be a winged horse! Sleeping at night, as he did, on a lofty mountain-top, and passing the greater part of the day in the air, Pegasus seemed hardly to be a creature of the earth. Whenever he was seen, up very high above people's heads, with the sunshine on his silvery wings, you would have thought that he belonged to the sky, and that, skimming a little too low, he had got astray among our mists and vapours, and was seeking his way back again. It was very pretty to behold him plunge into the fleecy bosom of a bright cloud, and be lost in it for a moment or two, and then break forth from the other side; or, in a sullen rain-storm, when there was a grey pavement of clouds over the whole sky, it would sometimes happen that the winged horse descended right through it, and the glad light of the upper region would gleam after him. In another instant, it is true, both Pegasus and the pleasant light would be gone away together. But any one that was fortunate enough to see this wondrous spectacle felt cheerful the whole day afterwards, and as much longer as the storm lasted. In the summer time, and in the beautifullest of weather, Pegasus often alighted on the solid earth, and, closing his silvery wings, would gallop over hill and dale for pastime, as fleetly as the wind. Oftener than in any other place, he had been seen near the Fountain of Pirene, drinking the delicious water, or rolling himself upon the soft grass of the margin. Sometimes, too (but Pegasus was very dainty in his food), he would crop a few of the clover-blossoms that happened to be the sweetest. To the Fountain of Pirene, therefore, people's great-grandfathers had been in the habit of going (as long as they were youthful, and retained their faith in winged horses), in hopes of getting a glimpse at the beautiful Pegasus. But, of late years, he had been very seldom seen. Indeed, there were many of the country folks, dwelling within half an hour's walk of the fountain, who had never beheld Pegasus, and did not believe that there was any such creature in existence. The country fellow to whom Bellerophon was speaking chanced to be one of those incredulous persons. And that was the reason why he laughed. "Pegasus, indeed!" cried he, turning up his nose as high as such a flat nose could be turned up, "Pegasus, indeed! A winged horse, truly! Why, friend, are you in your senses? Of what use would wings be to a horse? Could he drag the plough so well, think you? To be sure, there might be a little saving in the expense of shoes; but then, how would a man like to see his horse flying out of the stable window?--yes; or whisking him up above the clouds, when he only wanted to ride to mill! No, no! I don't believe in Pegasus. There never was such a ridiculous kind of a horse-fowl made!" "I have some reason to think otherwise," said Bellerophon, quietly. And then he turned to an old, grey man who was leaning on a staff, and listening very attentively, with his head stretched forward, and one hand at his ear, because for the last twenty years he had been getting rather deaf. "And what say you, venerable sir?" inquired he. "In your younger days, I should imagine you must frequently have seen the winged steed!" "Ah, young stranger, my memory is very poor!" said the aged man. "When I was a lad, if I remember rightly, I used to believe there was such a horse, and so did everybody else. But, now-a-days, I hardly know what to think, and very seldom think about the winged horse at all. If I ever saw the creature, it was a long, long while ago; and, to tell you the truth, I doubt whether I ever did see him. One day, to be sure, when I was quite a youth, I remember seeing some hoof-tramps round about the brink of the fountain. Pegasus might have made those hoof-marks; and so might some other horse." "And have you never seen him, my fair maiden?" asked Bellerophon of the girl, who stood with the pitcher on her head, while this talk went on. "You certainly could see Pegasus if anybody can, for your eyes are very bright." "Once I thought I saw him," replied the maiden, with a smile and a blush. "It was either Pegasus, or a large white bird, a very great way up in the air. And one other time, as I was coming to the fountain with my pitcher, I heard a neigh. Oh, such a brisk and melodious neigh as that was! My very heart leaped with delight at the sound. But it startled me, nevertheless; so that I ran home without filling my pitcher." "That was truly a pity!" said Bellerophon. And he turned to the child, whom I mentioned at the beginning of the story, and who was gazing at him, as children are apt to gaze at strangers, with his rosy mouth wide open. "Well, my little fellow," cried Bellerophon, playfully pulling one of his curls, "I suppose you have often seen the winged horse." "That I have," answered the child very readily. "I saw him yesterday, and many times before." "You are a fine little man!" said Bellerophon, drawing the child closer to him. "Come, tell me all about it." "Why," replied the child, "I often come here to sail little boats in the fountain, and to gather pretty pebbles out of its basin. And sometimes when I look down into the water, I see the image of the winged horse, in the picture of the sky that is there. I wish he would come down and take me on his back, and let me ride him up to the moon! But, if I so much as stir to look at him, he flies far away out of sight." And Bellerophon put his faith in the child, who had seen the image of Pegasus in the water, and in the maiden, who had heard him neigh so melodiously, rather than in the middle-aged clown, who believed only in cart-horses, or in the old man, who had forgotten the beautiful things of his youth. Therefore he haunted about the Fountain of Pirene for a great many days afterwards. He kept continually on the watch, looking upward at the sky, or else down into the water, hoping for ever that he should see either the reflected image of the winged horse, or the marvellous reality. He held the bridle, with its bright gems and golden bit, always ready in his hand. The rustic people, who dwelt in the neighbourhood, and drove their cattle to the fountain to drink, would often laugh at poor Bellerophon, and sometimes take him pretty severely to task. They told him that an able-bodied young man, like himself, ought to have better business than to be wasting his time in such an idle pursuit. They offered to sell him a horse, if he wanted one; and when Bellerophon declined the purchase they tried to drive a bargain with him for his fine bridle. Even the country boys thought him so very foolish, that they used to have a great deal of sport about him; and were rude enough not to care a fig, although Bellerophon saw and heard it. One little urchin, for example, would play Pegasus, and cut the oddest imaginable capers, by way of flying, while one of his schoolfellows would scamper after him, holding forth a twist of bulrushes, which was intended to represent Bellerophon's ornamented bridle. But the gentle child, who had seen the picture of Pegasus in the water, comforted the young stranger more than all the naughty boys could torment him. The dear little fellow, in his play-hours, often sat down beside him, and, without speaking a word, would look down into the fountain and up towards the sky, with so innocent a faith that Bellerophon could not help feeling encouraged. Now you will, perhaps, wish to be told why it was that Bellerophon had undertaken to catch the winged horse. And we shall find no better opportunity to speak about this matter than while he is waiting for Pegasus to appear. If I were to relate the whole of Bellerophon's previous adventures, they might easily grow into a very long story. It will be quite enough to say, that, in a certain country of Asia, a terrible monster, called a Chimaera, had made its appearance, and was doing more mischief than could be talked about between now and sunset. According to the best accounts which I have been able to obtain, this Chimaera was nearly, if not quite, the ugliest and most poisonous creature, and the strangest and unaccountablest, and the hardest to fight with, and the most difficult to run away from, that ever came out of the earth's inside. It had a tail like a boa-constrictor; its body was like I do not care what; and it had three separate heads, one of which was a lion's, the second a goat's, and the third an abominably great snake's. And a hot blast of fire came flaming out of each of its three mouths! Being an earthly monster, I doubt whether it had any wings; but, wings or no, it ran like a goat and a lion, and wriggled along like a serpent, and thus contrived to make about as much speed as all three together. Oh, the mischief, and mischief, and mischief, that this naughty creature did! With its flaming breath, it could set a forest on fire, or burn up a field of grain, or, for that matter, a village, with all its fences and houses. It laid waste the whole country round about, and used to eat up people and animals alive, and cook them afterwards in the burning oven of its stomach. Mercy on us, little children, I hope neither you nor I will ever happen to meet a Chimaera! While the hateful beast (if a beast we can anywise call it) was doing all these horrible things, it so chanced that Bellerophon came to that part of the world, on a visit to the king. The king's name was Iobates, and Lycia was the country which he ruled over. Bellerophon was one of the bravest youths in the world, and desired nothing so much as to do some valiant and beneficent deed, such as would make all mankind admire and love him. In those days, the only way for a young man to distinguish himself was by fighting battles, either with the enemies of his country, or with wicked giants, or with troublesome dragons, or with wild beasts, when he could find nothing more dangerous to encounter. King Iobates, perceiving the courage of his youthful visitor, proposed to him to go and fight the Chimaera, which everybody else was afraid of, and which, unless it should be soon killed, was likely to convert Lycia into a desert. Bellerophon hesitated not a moment, but assured the king that he would either slay this dreaded Chimaera, or perish in the attempt. But, in the first place, as the monster was so prodigiously swift, he bethought himself that he should never win the victory by fighting on foot. The wisest thing he could do, therefore, was to get the very best and fleetest horse that could anywhere be found. And what other horse, in all the world, was half so fleet as the marvellous horse Pegasus, who had wings as well as legs, and was even more active in the air than on the earth? To be sure, a great many people denied that there was any such horse with wings, and said that the stories about him were all poetry and nonsense. But, wonderful as it appeared, Bellerophon believed that Pegasus was a real steed, and hoped that he himself might be fortunate enough to find him; and, once fairly mounted on his back, he would be able to fight the Chimaera at better advantage. And this was the purpose with which he had travelled from Lycia to Greece, and had brought the beautifully ornamented bridle in his hand. It was an enchanted bridle. If he could only succeed in putting the golden bit into the mouth of Pegasus, the winged horse would be submissive, and would own Bellerophon for his master, and fly whithersoever he might choose to turn the rein. But, indeed, it was a weary and anxious time, while Bellerophon waited and waited for Pegasus, in hopes that he would come and drink at the Fountain of Pirene. He was afraid lest King Iobates should imagine that he had fled from the Chimaera. It pained him, too, to think how much mischief the monster was doing, while he himself, instead of fighting with it, was compelled to sit idly poring over the bright waters of Pirene, as they gushed out of the sparkling sand. And as Pegasus had come thither so seldom, in these latter days, and scarcely alighted there more than once in a lifetime, Bellerophon feared that he might grow an old man, and have no strength left in his arms nor courage in his heart, before the winged horse would appear. Oh, how heavily passes the time while an adventurous youth is yearning to do his part in life, and to gather in the harvest of his renown! How hard a lesson it is to wait! Our life is brief, and how much of it is spent in teaching us only this! Well was it for Bellerophon that the gentle child had grown so fond of him, and was never weary of keeping him company. Every morning the child gave him a new hope to put in his bosom, instead of yesterday's withered one. "Dear Bellerophon," he would cry, looking up hopefully into his face, "I think we shall see Pegasus to-day!" And, at length, if it had not been for the little boy's unwavering faith, Bellerophon would have given up all hope, and would have gone back to Lycia, and have done his best to slay the Chimaera without the help of his winged horse. And in that case poor Bellerophon would at least have been terribly scorched by the creature's breath, and would most probably have been killed and devoured. Nobody should ever try to fight an earth-born Chimaera, unless he can first get upon the back of an aerial steed. One morning the child spoke to Bellerophon even more hopefully than usual. "Dear, dear Bellerophon," cried he, "I know not why it is, but I feel as if we should certainly see Pegasus to-day!" And all that day he would not stir a step from Bellerophon's side; so they ate a crust of bread together, and drank some of the water of the fountain. In the afternoon, there they sat, and Bellerophon had thrown his arm around the child, who likewise had put one of his little hands into Bellerophon's. The latter was lost in his own thoughts, and was fixing his eyes vacantly on the trunks of the trees that overshadowed the fountain, and on the grape vines that clambered up among their branches. But the gentle child was gazing down into the water. He was grieved, for Bellerophon's sake, that the hope of another day should be deceived like so many before it; and two or three quiet tear-drops fell from his eyes, and mingled with what were said to be the many tears of Pirene, when she wept for her slain children. But, when he least thought of it, Bellerophon felt the pressure of the child's little hand, and heard a soft, almost breathless whisper. "See there, dear Bellerophon! There is an image in the water!" The young man looked down into the dimpling mirror of the fountain, and saw what he took to be the reflection of the bird, which seemed to be flying at a great height in the air, with a gleam of sunshine on its snowy or silvery wings. "What a splendid bird it must be!" said he. "And how very large it looks, though it must really be flying higher than the clouds!" "It makes me tremble!" whispered the child. "I am afraid to look up into the air! It is very beautiful, and yet I dare only look at its image in the water. Dear Bellerophon, do you not see that it is no bird? It is the winged horse Pegasus!" Bellerophon's heart began to throb! He gazed keenly upward, but could not see the winged creature, whether bird or horse, because, just then, it had plunged into the fleecy depths of a summer cloud. It was but a moment, however, before the object re-appeared, sinking lightly down out of the cloud, although still at a vast distance from the earth. Bellerophon caught the child in his arms, and shrunk back with him, so that they were both hidden among the thick shrubbery which grew all around the fountain. Not that he was afraid of any harm, but he dreaded lest, if Pegasus caught a glimpse of them, he would fly far away, and alight in some inaccessible mountain-top. For it was really the winged horse. After they had expected him so long, he was coming to quench his thirst with the water of Pirene. Nearer and nearer came the aerial wonder, flying in great circles, as you may have seen a dove when about to alight. Downward came Pegasus, in those wide, sweeping circles, which grew narrower and narrower still, as he gradually approached the earth. At length--not that he was weary, but only idle and luxurious--Pegasus folded his wings, and lay down on the soft green turf. But, being too full of aerial life to remain quiet for many moments together, he soon rolled over on his back, with his four slender legs in the air. It was beautiful to see him, this one solitary creature, whose mate had never been created, but who needed no companion, and, living a great many hundred years, was as happy as the centuries were long. The more he did such things as mortal horses are accustomed to do, the less earthly and the more wonderful he seemed. Bellerophon and the child almost held their breath, partly from a delightful awe, but still more because they dreaded lest the slightest stir or murmur should send him up, with the speed of an arrow-flight, into the furthest blue of the sky. Finally, when he had had enough of rolling over and over, Pegasus turned himself about, and, indolently, like any other horse, put out his fore-legs, in order to rise from the ground; and Bellerophon, who had guessed that he would do so, darted suddenly from the thicket, and leaped astride on his back. Yes, there he sat, on the back of the winged horse! But what a bound did Pegasus make, when, for the first time, he felt the weight of a mortal man upon his loins! A bound, indeed! Before he had time to draw a breath, Bellerophon found himself five hundred feet aloft, and still shooting upward, while the winged horse snorted and trembled with terror and anger. Upward he went, up, up, up, until he plunged into the cold, misty bosom of a cloud, at which only a little while before Bellerophon had been gazing and fancying it a very pleasant spot. Then again, out of the heart of the cloud, Pegasus shot down like a thunder-bolt, as if he meant to dash both himself and his rider headlong against a rock. Then he went through about a thousand of the wildest caprioles that had ever been performed either by a bird or a horse. I cannot tell you half that he did. He skimmed straightforward, and sideways, and backward. He reared himself erect, with his fore-legs on a wreath of mist, and his hind-legs on nothing at all. He flung out his heels behind, and put down his head between his legs, with his wings pointing right upward. At about two miles' height above the earth, he turned a somersault, so that Bellerophon's heels were where his head should have been, and he seemed to look down into the sky, instead of up. He twisted his head about, and, looking Bellerophon in the face, with fire flashing from his eyes, made a terrible attempt to bite him. He fluttered his pinions so wildly that one of the silver feathers was shaken out, and floating earthward, was picked up by the child, who kept it as long as he lived, in memory of Pegasus and Bellerophon. But the latter (who, as you may judge, was as good a horseman as ever galloped) had been watching his opportunity, and at last clapped the golden bit of the enchanted bridle between the winged steed's jaws. No sooner was this done, than Pegasus became as manageable as if he had taken food, all his life, out of Bellerophon's hand. To speak what I really feel, it was almost a sadness to see so wild a creature grow suddenly so tame. And Pegasus seemed to feel it so likewise. He looked round to Bellerophon, with the tears in his beautiful eyes, instead of the fire that so recently flashed from them. But when Bellerophon patted his head, and spoke a few authoritative, yet kind and soothing words, another look came into the eyes of Pegasus; for he was glad at heart, after so many lonely centuries, to have found a companion and a master. Thus it always is with winged horses, and with all such wild and solitary creatures. If you can catch and overcome them, it is the surest way to win their love. While Pegasus had been doing his utmost to shake Bellerophon off his back, he had flown a very long distance, and they had come within sight of a lofty mountain by the time the bit was in his mouth. Bellerophon had seen this mountain before, and knew it to be Helicon, on the summit of which was the winged horse's abode. Thither (after looking gently into his rider's face, as if to ask leave) Pegasus now flew, and, alighting, waited patiently until Bellerophon should please to dismount. The young man accordingly leaped from his steed's back, but still held him fast by the bridle. Meeting his eyes, however, he was so affected by the gentleness of his aspect, and by his beauty, and by the thought of the free life which Pegasus had heretofore lived, that he could not bear to keep him a prisoner, if he really desired his liberty. Obeying this generous impulse, he slipped the enchanted bridle off the head of Pegasus, and took the bit from his mouth. "Leave me, Pegasus!" said he. "Either leave me, or love me." In an instant the winged horse shot almost out of sight, soaring straight upward from the summit of Mount Helicon. Being long after sunset, it was now twilight on the mountain-top, and dusky evening over all the country round about. But Pegasus flew so high that he overtook the departed day, and was bathed in the upper radiance of the sun. Ascending higher and higher, he looked like a bright speck, and at last could no longer be seen in the hollow waste of the sky. And Bellerophon was afraid that he should never behold him more; but, while he was lamenting his own folly, the bright speck re-appeared, and drew nearer and nearer, until it descended lower than the sunshine; and, behold, Pegasus had come back! After this trial, there was no more fear of the winged horse's making his escape. He and Bellerophon were friends, and put loving faith in one another. That night they lay down and slept together, with Bellerophon's arm about the neck of Pegasus, not as a caution, but for kindness; and they awoke at peep of day, and bade one another good-morning, each in his own language. In this manner, Bellerophon and the wondrous steed spent several days, and grew better acquainted and fonder of each other all the time. They went on long aerial journeys, and sometimes ascended so high that the earth looked hardly bigger than--the moon. They visited distant countries and amazed the inhabitants, who thought that the beautiful young man, on the back of the winged horse, must have come down out of the sky. A thousand miles a day was no more than an easy space for the fleet Pegasus to pass over. Bellerophon was delighted with this kind of life, and would have liked nothing better than to live always in the same way, aloft in the clear atmosphere; for it was always sunny weather up there, however cheerless and rainy it might be in the lower region. But he could not forget the horrible Chimaera which he had promised King Iobates to slay. So at last, when he had become well accustomed to feats of horsemanship in the air, could manage Pegasus with the least motion of his hand, and had taught him to obey his voice, he determined to attempt the performance of this perilous adventure. At daybreak, therefore, as soon as he unclosed his eyes, he gently pinched the winged horse's ear, in order to arouse him. Pegasus immediately started from the ground, and pranced about a quarter of a mile aloft, and made a grand sweep around the mountain-top, by way of showing that he was wide awake, and ready for any kind of an excursion. During the whole of this little flight he uttered a loud, brisk, and melodious neigh, and finally came down at Bellerophon's side as lightly as ever you saw a sparrow hop upon a twig. "Well done, dear Pegasus; well done, my sky-skimmer," cried Bellerophon, fondly stroking the horse's neck. "And now, my fleet and beautiful friend, we must break our fast. To-day we are to fight the terrible Chimaera." As soon as they had eaten their morning meal, and drank some sparkling water from a spring called Hippocrene, Pegasus held out his head, of his own accord, so that his master might put on the bridle. Then, with a great many playful leaps and airy caperings, he showed his impatience to be gone; while Bellerophon was girding on his sword, and hanging his shield about his neck, and preparing himself for battle. When everything was ready, the rider mounted, and (as was his custom when going a long distance) ascended five miles perpendicularly, so as the better to see whither he was directing his course. He then turned the head of Pegasus towards the east, and set out for Lycia. In their flight they overtook an eagle, and came so nigh him, before he could get out of their way, that Bellerophon might easily have caught him by the leg. Hastening onward at this rate, it was still early in the forenoon when they beheld the lofty mountains of Lycia, with their deep and shaggy valleys. If Bellerophon had been told truly, it was in one of those dismal valleys that the hideous Chimaera had taken up its abode. Being now so near their journey's end, the winged horse gradually descended with his rider; and they took advantage of some clouds that were floating over the mountain-tops, in order to conceal themselves. Hovering on the upper surface of a cloud, and peeping over its edge, Bellerophon had a pretty distinct view of the mountainous part of Lycia, and could look into all its shadowy vales at once. At first there appeared to be nothing remarkable. It was a wild, savage, and rocky tract of high and precipitous hills. In the more level part of the country, there were the ruins of houses that had been burnt, and, here and there, the carcases of dead cattle strewn about the pastures where they had been feeding. "The Chimaera must have done this mischief," thought Bellerophon. "But where can the monster be?" As I have already said, there was nothing remarkable to be detected, at first sight, in any of the valleys and dells that lay among the precipitous heights of the mountains. Nothing at all; unless, indeed, it were three spires of black smoke, which issued from what seemed to be the mouth of a cavern, and clambered suddenly into the atmosphere. Before reaching the mountain-top, these three black smoke-wreaths mingled themselves into one. The cavern was almost directly beneath the winged horse and his rider, at the distance of about a thousand feet. The smoke, as it, crept heavily upward, had an ugly, sulphurous, stifling scent, which caused Pegasus to snort and Bellerophon to sneeze. So disagreeable was it to the marvellous steed (who was accustomed to breathe only the purest air), that he waved his wings, and shot half a mile out of the range of this offensive vapour. But, on looking behind him, Bellerophon saw something that induced him first to draw the bridle, and then to turn Pegasus about. He made a sign which the winged horse understood, and sunk slowly through the air, until his hoofs were scarcely more than a man's height above the rocky bottom of the valley. In front, as far off as you could throw a stone, was the cavern's mouth, with the three smoke-wreaths oozing out of it. And what else did Bellerophon behold there? There seemed to be a heap of strange and terrible creatures curled up within the cavern. Their bodies lay so close together, that Bellerophon could not distinguish them apart: but judging by their heads, one of these creatures was a huge snake, the second a fierce lion, and the third an ugly goat. The lion and the goat were asleep; the snake was broad awake, and kept staring around him with a great pair of fiery eyes. But--and this was the most wonderful part of the matter, the three spires of smoke evidently issued from the nostrils of these three heads! So strange was the spectacle, that, though Bellerophon had been all along expecting it, the truth did not immediately occur to him, that here was the terrible three-headed Chimaera. He had found out the Chimaera's cavern. The snake, the lion, a and the goat, as he supposed them to be, were not three separate creatures, but one monster! The wicked, hateful thing! Slumbering as two-thirds of it were, it still held, in its abominable claws, the remnant of an unfortunate lamb--or possibly (but I hate to think so) it was a dear little boy-- which its three mouths had been gnawing before two of them fell asleep! All at once, Bellerophon started as from a dream, and knew it to be the Chimaera. Pegasus seemed to know it at the same instant, and sent forth a neigh, that sounded like the call of a trumpet to battle. At this sound the three heads reared themselves erect, and belched out great flashes of flame. Before Bellerophon had time to consider what to do next, the monster flung itself out of the cavern and sprung straight towards him, with its immense claws extended and its snaky tail twisting itself venomously behind. If Pegasus had not been as nimble as a bird, both he and his rider would have been overthrown by the Chimaera's headlong rush, and thus the battle have been ended before it was well begun. But the winged horse was not to be caught so. In the twinkling of an eye he was up aloft, half-way to the clouds, snorting with anger. He shuddered, too, not with affright, but with utter disgust at the loathsomeness of this poisonous thing with three heads. The Chimaera, on the other hand, raised itself up so as to stand absolutely on the tip-end of its tail, with its talons pawing fiercely in the air, and its three heads spluttering fire at Pegasus and his rider. My stars, how it roared, and hissed, and bellowed! Bellerophon, meanwhile, was fitting his shield on his arm, and drawing his sword. "Now, my beloved Pegasus," he whispered in the winged horse's ear, "thou must help me to slay this insufferable monster; or else thou shalt fly back to thy solitary mountain peak without thy friend Bellerophon. For either the Chimaera dies, or its three mouths shall gnaw this head of mine, which has slumbered upon thy neck!" Pegasus whinnied, and, turning back his head, rubbed his nose tenderly against his rider's cheek. It was his way of telling him that, though he had wings and was an immortal horse, yet he would perish, if it were possible for immortality to perish, rather than leave Bellerophon behind. "I thank you, Pegasus," answered Bellerophon. "Now, then, let us make a dash at the monster!" Uttering these words, he shook the bridle; and Pegasus darted down aslant, as swift as the flight of an arrow, right towards the Chimaera's threefold head, which, all this time, was poking itself as high as it could into the air. As he came within arm's length, Bellerophon made a cut at the monster, but was carried onward by his steed, before he could see whether the blow had been successful. Pegasus continued his course, but soon wheeled round, at about the same distance from the Chimaera as before. Bellerophon then perceived that he had cut the goat's head of the monster almost off, so that it dangled downward by the skin, and seemed quite dead. But to make amends, the snake's head and the lion's head had taken all the fierceness of the dead one into themselves, and spit flame, and hissed, and roared, with a vast deal more fury than before. "Never mind, my brave Pegasus!" cried Bellerophon. "With another stroke like that we will stop either its hissing or its roaring." And again he shook the bridle. Dashing aslant-wise, as before, the winged horse made another arrow-flight towards the Chimaera, and Bellerophon aimed another downright stroke at one of the two remaining heads, as he shot by. But, this time, neither he nor Pegasus escaped so well as at first. With one of its claws, the Chimaera had given the young man a deep scratch in his shoulder, and had slightly damaged the left wing of the flying steed with the other. On his part, Bellerophon had mortally wounded the lion's head of the monster, insomuch that it now hung downward, with its fire almost extinguished, and sending out gasps of thick black smoke. The snake's head, however (which was the only one now left), was twice as fierce and venomous as ever before. It belched forth shoots of fire five hundred yards long, and emitted hisses so loud, so harsh, and so ear-piercing, that King Iobates heard them, fifty miles off, and trembled till the throne shook under him. "Well-a-day!" thought the poor king; "the Chimaera is certainly coming to devour me!" Meanwhile, Pegasus had again paused in the air, and neighed angrily, while sparkles of a pure crystal flame darted out of his eyes. How unlike the lurid fire of the Chimaera! The aerial steed's spirit was all aroused, and so was that of Bellerophon. "Dost thou bleed, my immortal horse?" cried the young man, caring less for his own hurt than for the anguish of this glorious creature, that ought never to have tasted pain. "The execrable Chimaera shall pay for this mischief, with his last head!" Then he shook the bridle, shouted loudly, and guided Pegasus, not aslant-wise as before, but straight at the monster's hideous front. So rapid was the onset, that it seemed but a dazzle and a flash, before Bellerophon was at close gripes with the enemy. The Chimaera, by this time, after losing its second head, had got into a red-hot passion of pain and rampant rage. It so flounced about, half on earth and partly in the air, that it was impossible to say which element it rested upon. It opened its snake-jaws to such an abominable width, that Pegasus might almost, I was going to say, have flown right down its throat, wings outspread, rider and all? At their approach it shot out a tremendous blast of its fiery breath, and enveloped Bellerophon and his stead in a perfect atmosphere of flame, singeing the wings of Pegasus, scorching off one whole side of the young man's golden ringlets, and making them both far hotter than was comfortable, from head to foot. But this was nothing to what followed. When the airy rush of the winged horse had brought him within the distance of a hundred yards, the Chimaera gave a spring, and flung its huge, awkward, venomous, and utterly detestable carcase a right upon poor Pegasus, clung round him with might and main, and tied up its snaky tail into a knot! Up flew the aerial steed, higher, higher, higher, above the mountain peaks, above the clouds, and almost out of sight of the solid earth. But still the earth-born monster kept its hold, and was borne upward, along with the creature of light and air. Bellerophon, meanwhile turning about, found himself face to face with the ugly grimness of the Chimaera's visage, and could only avoid being scorched to death, or bitten right in twain, by holding up his shield. Over the upper edge of the shield, he looked sternly into the savage eyes of the monster. But the Chimaera was so mad and wild with pain, that it did not guard itself so well as might else have been the case. Perhaps, after all, the best way to fight a Chimaera is by getting as close to it as you can. In its efforts to stick its horrible iron claws into its enemy, the creature left its own breast quite exposed; and perceiving this, Bellerophon thrust his sword up to the hilt into its cruel heart. Immediately the snaky tail untied its knot. The monster let go its hold of Pegasus, and fell from that vast height downward; while the fire within its bosom, instead of being put out, burned fiercer than ever, and quickly began to consume the dead carcase. Thus it fell out of the sky, all a-flame, and (it being nightfall before it reached the earth) was mistaken for a shooting star or a comet. But at early sunrise, some cottager's were going to their day's labour, and saw, to their astonishment, that several acres of ground were strewn with black ashes. In the middle of a field there was a heap of whitened bones, a great deal higher than a haystack. Nothing else was ever seen of the dreadful Chimaera! And when Bellerophon had won the victory, he bent forward and kissed Pegasus, while the tears stood in his eyes. "Back now, my beloved steed!" said he. "Back to the Fountain of Pirene!" Pegasus skimmed through the air, quicker than ever he did before, and reached the fountain in a very short time. And there he found the old man leaning on his staff, and the country fellow watering his cow, and the pretty maiden filling her pitcher. "I remember now," quoth the old man, "I saw this winged horse once before, when I was quite a lad. But he was ten times handsomer in those days." "I own a cart-horse worth three of him!" said the country fellow. "If this pony were mine, the first thing I should do would be to clip his wings!" But the poor maiden said nothing, for she had always the luck to be afraid at the wrong time. So she ran away, and let her pitcher tumble down, and broke it. "Where is the gentle child," asked Bellerophon, "who used to keep me company, and never lost his faith, and never was weary of gazing into the fountain?" "Here am I, dear Bellerophon!" said the child, softly. For the little boy had spent day after day, on the margin of Pirene, waiting for his friend to come back; but when he perceived Bellerophon descending through the clouds, mounted on the winged horse, he had shrunk back into the shrubbery. He was a delicate and tender child, and dreaded lest the old man and the country fellow should see the tears gushing from his eyes. "Thou hast won the victory," said he, joyfully, running to the knee of Bellerophon, who still sat on the back of Pegasus. "I knew thou wouldst." "Yes, dear child!" replied Bellerophon, alighting from the winged horse. "But if thy faith had not helped me, I should never have waited for Pegasus, and never have gone up above the clouds, and never have conquered the terrible Chimaera. Thou, my beloved little friend, hast done it all. And now let us give Pegasus his liberty." So he slipped off the enchanted bridle from the head of the marvellous steed. "Be free, for evermore, my Pegasus!" cried he with a shade of sadness in his tone. "Be as free as thou art fleet!" But Pegasus rested his head on Bellerophon's shoulder, and would not be persuaded to take flight. "Well, then," said Bellerophon, caressing the airy horse, "thou shalt be with me as long as thou wilt; and we will go together forthwith, and tell King Iobates that the Chimaera is destroyed." Then Bellerophon embraced the gentle child, and promised to come to him again, and departed. But, in after years, that child took higher flights upon the aerial steed than ever did Bellerophon, and achieved more honourable deeds than his friend's victory over the Chimaera. For, gentle and tender as he was, he grew to be a mighty poet! 
18057	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustration. See 18057-h.htm or 18057-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/8/0/5/18057/18057-h/18057-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/8/0/5/18057/18057-h.zip) FLOWER OF THE DUSK by MYRTLE REED G. P. Putnam's Sons New York and London The Knickerbocker Press 1908 Copyright, 1908 by Myrtle Reed McCullough The Knickerbocker Press, New York By MYRTLE REED. FLOWER OF THE DUSK. LOVE AFFAIRS OF LITERARY MEN. A SPINNER IN THE SUN. LOVE LETTERS OF A MUSICIAN. LATER LOVE LETTERS OF A MUSICIAN. THE SPINSTER BOOK. LAVENDER AND OLD LACE. THE MASTER'S VIOLIN. AT THE SIGN OF THE JACK-O'-LANTERN. THE SHADOW OF VICTORY. THE BOOK OF CLEVER BEASTS. PICKABACK SONGS. Contents CHAPTER PAGE I--A MAKER OF SONGS 1 II--MISS MATTIE 15 III--THE TOWER OF COLOGNE 28 IV--THE SEVENTH OF JUNE 42 V--ELOISE 55 VI--A LETTER 68 VII--AN AFTERNOON CALL 83 VIII--A FAIRY GODMOTHER 98 IX--TAKING THE CHANCE 111 X--IN THE GARDEN 126 XI--BARBARA'S "TO-MORROW" 142 XII--MIRIAM 155 XIII--"WOMAN SUFFRAGE" 169 XIV--BARBARA'S BIRTHDAY 181 XV--THE SONG OF THE PINES 194 XVI--BETRAYAL 209 XVII--"NEVER AGAIN" 225 XVIII--THE PASSING OF FIDO 238 XIX--THE DREAMS COME TRUE 253 XX--PARDON 273 XXI--THE PERILS OF THE CITY 286 XXII--AUTUMN LEAVES 299 XXIII--LETTERS TO CONSTANCE 313 XXIV--THE BELLS IN THE TOWER 327 Flower of the Dusk [Illustration: "Secretly, too, both were ashamed, having come unawares upon knowledge that was not meant for them."--_Page 82._ _From a painting by Clinton Balmer_] I A Maker of Songs [Sidenote: Sunset] The pines, darkly purple, towered against the sunset. Behind the hills, the splendid tapestry glowed and flamed, sending far messages of light to the grey East, where lay the sea, crooning itself to sleep. Bare boughs dripped rain upon the sodden earth, where the dead leaves had so long been hidden by the snow. The thousand sounds and scents of Spring at last had waked the world. The man who stood near the edge of the cliff, quite alone, and carefully feeling the ground before him with his cane, had chosen to face the valley and dream of the glory that, perchance, trailed down in living light from some vast loom of God's. His massive head was thrown back, as though he listened, with a secret sense, for music denied to those who see. [Sidenote: Joyful Memories] He took off his hat and stray gleams came through the deepening shadows to rest, like an aureole, upon his silvered hair. Remembered sunsets, from beyond the darkness of more than twenty years, came back to him with divine beauty and diviner joy. Mnemosyne, that guardian angel of the soul, brought from her treasure-house gifts of laughter and tears; the laughter sweet with singing, and the bitterness of the tears eternally lost in the Water of Forgetfulness. Slowly, the light died. Dusk came upon the valley and crept softly to the hills. Mist drifted in from the sleeping sea, and the hush of night brooded over the river as it murmured through the plain. A single star uplifted its exquisite lamp against the afterglow, near the veiled ivory of the crescent moon. Sighing, the man turned away. "Perhaps," he thought, whimsically, as he went cautiously down the path, searching out every step of the way, "there was no sunset at all." The road was clear until he came to a fallen tree, over which he stepped easily. The new softness of the soil had, for him, its own deep meaning of resurrection. He felt it in the swelling buds of the branches that sometimes swayed before him, and found it in the scent of the cedar as he crushed a bit of it in his hand. Easily, yet carefully, he went around the base of the hill to the street, where his house was the first upon the right-hand side. The gate creaked on its hinges and he went quickly up the walk, passing the grey tangle of last Summer's garden, where the marigolds had died and the larkspur fallen asleep. Within the house, two women awaited him, one with anxious eagerness, the other with tenderly watchful love. The older one, who had long been listening, opened the door before he knocked, but it was Barbara who spoke to him first. "You're late, Father, dear." "Am I, Barbara? Tell me, was there a sunset to-night?" "Yes, a glorious one." [Sidenote: Seeing with the Soul] "I thought so, and that accounts for my being late. I saw a beautiful sunset--I saw it with my soul." "Give me your coat, Ambrose." The older woman stood at his side, longing to do him some small service. "Thank you, Miriam; you are always kind." The tiny living-room was filled with relics of past luxury. Fine pictures, in tarnished frames, hung on the dingy walls, and worn rugs covered the floor. The furniture was old mahogany, beautifully cared for, but decrepit, nevertheless, and the ancient square piano, outwardly, at least, showed every year of its age. Still, the room had "atmosphere," of the indefinable quality that some people impart to a dwelling-place. Entering, one felt refinement, daintiness, and the ability to live above mere externals. Barbara had, very strongly, the house-love which belongs to some rare women. And who shall say that inanimate things do not answer to our love of them, and diffuse, between our four walls, a certain gracious spirit of kindliness and welcome? In the dining-room, where the table was set for supper, there were marked contrasts. A coarse cloth covered the table, but at the head of it was overlaid a remnant of heavy table-damask, the worn places carefully hidden. The china at this place was thin and fine, the silver was solid, and the cup from which Ambrose North drank was Satsuma. On the coarse cloth were the heavy, cheap dishes and the discouraging knives and forks which were the portion of the others. The five damask napkins remaining from the original stock of linen were used only by the blind man. [Sidenote: A Comforting Deceit] For years the two women had carried on this comforting deceit, and the daily lie they lived, so lovingly, had become a sort of second nature. They had learned to speak, casually, of the difficulty in procuring servants, and to say how much easier it was to do their own small tasks than to watch continually over fine linen and rare china intrusted to incompetent hands. They talked of tapestries, laces, and jewels which had long ago been sold, and Barbara frequently wore a string of beads which, with a lump in her throat, she called "Mother's pearls." Discovering that the sound of her crutches on the floor distressed him greatly, Barbara had padded the sharp ends with flannel and was careful to move about as little as possible when he was in the house. She had gone, mouse-like, to her own particular chair while Miriam was hanging up his coat and hat and placing his easy chair near the open fire. He sat down and held his slender hands close to the grateful warmth. "It isn't cold," he said, "and yet I am glad of the fire. To-day is the first day of Spring." "By the almanac?" laughed Barbara. "No, according to the almanac, I believe, it has been Spring for ten days. Nature does not move according to man's laws, but she forces him to observe hers--except in almanacs." [Sidenote: Kindly Shadows] The firelight made kindly shadows in the room, softening the unloveliness and lending such beauty as it might. It gave to Ambrose North's fine, strong face the delicacy and dignity of an old miniature. It transfigured Barbara's yellow hair into a crown of gold, and put a new gentleness into Miriam's lined face as she sat in the half-light, one of them in blood, yet singularly alien and apart. "What are you doing, Barbara?" The sensitive hands strayed to her lap and lifted the sheer bit of linen upon which she was working. "Making lingerie by hand." "You have a great deal of it, haven't you?" "Not as much as you think, perhaps. It takes a long time to do it well." "It seems to me you are always sewing." "Girls are very vain these days, Father. We need a great many pretty things." "Your dear mother used to sew a great deal. She--" His voice broke, for even after many years his grief was keenly alive. "Is supper ready, Aunt Miriam?" asked Barbara, quickly. "Yes." "Then come, let's go in." Ambrose North took his place at the head of the table, which, purposely, was nearest the door. Barbara and Miriam sat together, at the other end. "Where were you to-day, Father?" [Sidenote: At the top of the World] "On the summit of the highest hill, almost at the top of the world. I think I heard a robin, but I am not sure. I smelled Spring in the maple branches and the cedar, and felt it in the salt mist that blew up from the sea. The Winter has been so long!" "Did you make a song?" [Sidenote: Always Make a Song] "Yes--two. I'll tell you about them afterward. Always make a song, Barbara, no matter what comes." So the two talked, while the other woman watched them furtively. Her face was that of one who has lived much in a short space of time and her dark, burning eyes betrayed tragic depths of feeling. Her black hair, slightly tinged with grey, was brushed straight back from her wrinkled forehead. Her shoulders were stooped and her hands rough from hard work. She was the older sister of Ambrose North's dead wife--the woman he had so devotedly loved. Ever since her sister's death, she had lived with them, taking care of little lame Barbara, now grown into beautiful womanhood, except for the crutches. After his blindness, Ambrose North had lost his wife, and then, by slow degrees, his fortune. Mercifully, a long illness had made him forget a great deal. "Never mind, Barbara," said Miriam, in a low tone, as they rose from the table. "It will make your hands too rough for the sewing." "Shan't I wipe the dishes for you, Aunty? I'd just as soon." "No--go with him." The fire had gone down, but the room was warm, so Barbara turned up the light and began again on her endless stitching. Her father's hands sought hers. "More sewing?" His voice was tender and appealing. "Just a little bit, Father, please. I'm so anxious to get this done." "But why, dear?" "Because girls are so vain," she answered, with a laugh. "Is my little girl vain?" "Awfully. Hasn't she the dearest father in the world and the prettiest"--she swallowed hard here--"the prettiest house and the loveliest clothes? Who wouldn't be vain!" "I am so glad," said the old man, contentedly, "that I have been able to give you the things you want. I could not bear it if we were poor." "You told me you had made two songs to-day, Father." [Sidenote: Song of the River] He drew closer to her and laid one hand upon the arm of her chair. Quietly, she moved her crutches beyond his reach. "One is about the river," he began. "In Winter, a cruel fairy put it to sleep in an enchanted tower, far up in the mountains, and walled up the door with crystal. All the while the river was asleep, it was dreaming of the green fields and the soft, fragrant winds. "It tossed and murmured in its sleep, and at last it woke, too soon, for the cruel fairy's spell could not have lasted much longer. When it found the door barred, it was very sad. Then it grew rebellious and hurled itself against the door, trying to escape, but the barrier only seemed more unyielding. So, making the best of things, the river began to sing about the dream. "From its prison-house, it sang of the green fields and fragrant winds, the blue violets that starred the meadow, the strange, singing harps of the marsh grasses, and the wonder of the sea. A good fairy happened to be passing, and she stopped to hear the song. She became so interested that she wanted to see the singer, so she opened the door. The river laughed and ran out, still singing, and carrying the door along. It never stopped until it had taken every bit of the broken crystal far out to sea." "I made one, too, Father." "What is it?" [Sidenote: Song of the Flax] "Mine is about the linen. Once there was a little seed put away into the darkness and covered deep with earth. But there was a soul in the seed, and after the darkness grew warm it began to climb up and up, until one day it reached the sunshine. After that, it was so glad that it tossed out tiny, green branches and finally its soul blossomed into a blue flower. Then a princess passed, and her hair was flaxen and her eyes were the colour of the flower. "The flower said, 'Oh, pretty Princess, I want to go with you.' "The princess answered, 'You would die, little Flower, if you were picked,' and she went on. "But one day the Reaper passed and the little blue flower and all its fellows were gathered. After a terrible time of darkness and pain, the flower found itself in a web of sheerest linen. There was much cutting and more pain, and thousands of pricking stitches, then a beautiful gown was made, all embroidered with the flax in palest blue and green. And it was the wedding gown of the pretty princess, because her hair was flaxen and her eyes the colour of the flower." [Sidenote: Barbara] "What colour is your hair, Barbara?" He had asked the question many times. "The colour of ripe corn, Daddy. Don't you remember my telling you?" He leaned forward to stroke the shining braids. "And your eyes?" "Like the larkspur that grows in the garden." "I know--your dear mother's eyes." He touched her face gently as he spoke. "Your skin is so smooth--is it fair?" "Yes, Daddy." "I think you must be beautiful; I have asked Miriam so often, but she will not tell me. She only says you look well enough and something like your mother. Are you beautiful?" "Oh, Daddy! Daddy!" laughed Barbara, in confusion. "You mustn't ask such questions! Didn't you say you had made two songs? What is the other one?" Miriam sat in the dining-room, out of sight but within hearing. Having observed that in her presence they laughed less, she spent her evenings alone unless they urged her to join them. She had a newspaper more than a week old, but, as yet, she had not read it. She sat staring into the shadows, with the light of her one candle flickering upon her face, nervously moving her work-worn hands. "The other song," reminded Barbara, gently. [Sidenote: Song of the Sunset] "This one was about a sunset," he sighed. "It was such a sunset as was never on sea or land, because two who loved each other saw it together. God and all His angels had hung a marvellous tapestry from the high walls of Heaven, and it reached almost to the mountain-tops, where some of the little clouds sleep. "The man said, 'Shall we always look for the sunsets together?' "The woman smiled and answered, 'Yes, always.' "'And,' the man continued, 'when one of us goes on the last long journey?' "'Then,' answered the woman, 'the other will not be watching alone. For, I think, there in the West is the Golden City with the jasper walls and the jewelled foundations, where the twelve gates are twelve pearls.'" There was a long silence. "And so--" said Barbara, softly. Ambrose North lifted his grey head from his hands and rose to his feet unsteadily. "And so," he said, with difficulty, "she leans from the sunset toward him, but he can never see her, because he is blind. Oh, Barbara," he cried, passionately, "last night I dreamed that you could walk and I could see!" "So we can, Daddy," said Barbara, very gently. "Our souls are neither blind nor lame. Here, I am eyes for you and you are feet for me, so we belong together. And--past the sunset----" "Past the sunset," repeated the old man, dreamily, "soul and body shall be as one. We must wait--for life is made up of waiting--and make what songs we can." "I think, Father, that a song should be in poetry, shouldn't it?" [Sidenote: The Real Song] "Some of them are, but more are not. Some are music and some are words, and some, like prayers, are feeling. The real song is in the thrush's heart, not in the silvery rain of sound that comes from the green boughs in Spring. When you open the door of your heart and let all the joy rush out, laughing--then you are making a song." "But--is there always joy?" "Yes, though sometimes it is sadly covered up with other things. We must find it and divide it, for only in that way it grows. Good-night, my dear." He bent to kiss her, while Miriam, with her heart full of nameless yearning, watched them from the far shadows. The sound of his footsteps died away and a distant door closed. Soon afterward Miriam took her candle and went noiselessly upstairs, but she did not say good-night to Barbara. [Sidenote: Midnight] Until midnight, the girl sat at her sewing, taking the finest of stitches in tuck and hem. The lamp burning low made her needle fly swiftly. In her own room was an old chest nearly full of dainty garments which she was never to wear. She had wrought miracles of embroidery upon some of them, and others were unadorned save by tucks and lace. When the work was finished, she folded it and laid it aside, then put away her thimble and thread. "When the guests come to the hotel," she thought--"ah, when they come, and buy all the things I've made the past year, and the preserves and the candied orange peel, the rag rugs and the quilts, then----" [Sidenote: Dying Embers] So Barbara fell a-dreaming, and the light of the dying embers lay lovingly upon her face, already transfigured by tenderness into beauty beyond words. The lamp went out and little by little the room faded into twilight, then into night. It was quite dark when she leaned over and picked up her crutches. "Dear, dear father," she breathed. "He must never know!" II Miss Mattie Miss Mattie was getting supper, sustained by the comforting thought that her task was utterly beneath her and had been forced upon her by the mysterious workings of an untoward Fate. She was not really "Miss," since she had been married and widowed, and a grown son was waiting impatiently in the sitting-room for his evening meal, but her neighbours, nearly all of whom had known her before her marriage, still called her "Miss Mattie." [Sidenote: "Old Maids"] The arbitrary social distinctions, made regardless of personality, are often cruelly ironical. Many a man, incapable by nature of life-long devotion to one woman, becomes a husband in half an hour, duly sanctioned by Church and State. A woman who remains unmarried, because, with fine courage, she will have her true mate or none, is called "an old maid." She may have the heart of a wife and the soul of a mother, but she cannot escape her sinister label. The real "old maids" are of both sexes, and many are married, but alas! seldom to each other. [Sidenote: A Grievance] In his introspective moments, Roger Austin sometimes wondered why marriage, maternity, and bereavement should have left no trace upon his mother. The uttermost depths of life had been hers for the sounding, but Miss Mattie had refused to drop her plummet overboard and had spent the years in prolonged study of her own particular boat. She came in, with the irritating air of a martyr, and clucked sharply with her false teeth when she saw that her son was reading. "I don't know what I've done," she remarked, "that I should have to live all the time with people who keep their noses in books. Your pa was forever readin' and you're marked with it. I could set here and set here and set here, and he took no more notice of me than if I was a piece of furniture. When he died, the brethren and sistern used to come to condole with me and say how I must miss him. There wasn't nothin' to miss, 'cause the books and his chair was left. I've a good mind to burn 'em all up." "I won't read if you don't want me to, Mother," answered Roger, laying his book aside regretfully. "I dunno but what I'd rather you would than to want to and not," she retorted, somewhat obscurely. "What I'm a-sayin' is that it's in the blood and you can't help it. If I'd known it was your pa's intention to give himself up so exclusive to readin', I'd never have married him, that's all I've got to say. There's no sense in it. Lemme see what you're at now." She took the open book, that lay face downward upon the table, and read aloud, awkwardly: "Leave to the diamond its ages to grow, nor expect to accelerate the births of the eternal. Friendship demands a religious treatment. We talk of choosing our friends, but friends are self-elected." [Sidenote: Peculiar Way of Putting Things] "Now," she demanded, in a shrill voice, "what does that mean?" "I don't think I could explain it to you, Mother." "That's just the point. Your pa couldn't never explain nothin', neither. You're readin' and readin' and readin' and you never know what you're readin' about. Diamonds growin' and births bein' hurried up, and friends bein' religious and voted for at township elections. Who's runnin' for friend this year on the Republican ticket?" she inquired, caustically. Roger managed to force a laugh. "You have your own peculiar way of putting things, Mother. Is supper ready? I'm as hungry as a bear." "I suppose you are. When it ain't readin', it's eatin'. Work all day to get a meal that don't last more'n fifteen minutes, and then see readin' goin' on till long past bedtime, and oil goin' up every six months. Which'll you have--fresh apple sauce, or canned raspberries?" "It doesn't matter." "Then I'll get the apple sauce, because the canned raspberries can lay over as long as they're kept cool." [Sidenote: Miss Mattie's Personal Appearance] Miss Mattie shuffled back into the kitchen. During the Winter she wore black knitted slippers attached to woollen inner soles which had no heels. She was well past the half-century mark, but her face had few lines in it and her grey eyes were sharp and penetrating. Her smooth, pale brown hair, which did not show the grey in it, was parted precisely in the middle. Every morning she brushed it violently with a stiff brush dipped into cold water, and twisted the ends into a tight knot at the back of her head. In militant moments, this knot seemed to rise and the protruding ends of the wire hairpins to bristle into formidable weapons of offence. She habitually wore her steel-bowed spectacles half-way down her nose. They might have fallen off had not a kindly Providence placed a large wart where it would do the most good. On Sundays, when she put on shoes, corsets, her best black silk, and her gold-bowed spectacles, she took great pains to wear them properly. When she reached home, however, she always took off her fine raiment and laid her spectacles aside with a great sigh of relief. Miss Mattie's disposition improved rapidly as soon as the old steel-bowed pair were in their rightful place, resting safely upon the wart. [Sidenote: Second-hand Things] When they sat down to supper, she reverted to the original topic. "As I was sayin'," she began, "there ain't no sense in the books you and your pa has always set such store by. Where he ever got 'em, I dunno, but they was always a comin'. Lots of 'em was well-nigh wore out when he got 'em, and he wouldn't let me buy nothin' that had been used before, even if I knew the folks. "I got a silver coffin plate once at an auction over to the Ridge for almost nothin' and your pa was as mad as a wet hen. There was a name on it, but it could have been scraped off, and the rest of it was perfectly good. When you need a coffin plate you need it awful bad. While your pa was rampin' around, he said he wouldn't have been surprised to see me comin' home with a second-hand coffin in the back of the buggy. Who ever heard of a second-hand coffin? I've always thought his mind was unsettled by so much readin'. "I ain't a-sayin' but what some readin' is all right. Some folks has just moved over to the Ridge and the postmaster's wife was a-showin' me some papers they get, every week. One is _The Metropolitan Weekly_, and the other _The Housewife's Companion_. I must say, the stories in those papers is certainly beautiful. "Once, when they come after their mail, they was as mad as anything because the papers hadn't come, but the postmaster's wife was readin' one of the stories and settin' up nights to do it, so she wa'n't to blame for not lettin' 'em go until she got through with 'em. They slip out of the covers just as easy, and nobody ever knows the difference. [Sidenote: The Doctor's Darling] "She was tellin' me about one of the stories. It's named _Lovely Lulu, or the Doctor's Darling_. Lovely Lulu is a little orphant who has to do most of the housework for a family of eight, and the way they abuse that child is something awful. The young ladies are forever puttin' ruffled white skirts into her wash, and makin' her darn the lace on their blue silk mornin' dresses. "There's a rich doctor that they're all after and one day little Lulu happens to open the front-door for him, and he gets a good look at her for the first time. As she goes upstairs, Arthur Montmorency--that's his name--holds both hands to his heart and says, 'She and she only shall be my bride.' The conclusion of this highly fascinatin' and absorbin' romance will be found in the next number of _The Housewife's Companion_." "Mother," suggested Roger, "why don't you subscribe for the papers yourself?" Miss Mattie dropped her knife and fork and gazed at him in open-mouthed astonishment. "Roger," she said, kindly, "I declare if sometimes you don't remind me of my people more'n your pa's. I never thought of that myself and I dunno how you come to. I'll do it the very first time I go down to the store. The postmaster's wife can get the addresses without tearin' off the covers, and after I get 'em read she can borrow mine, and not be always makin' the people at the Ridge so mad that she's runnin' the risk of losin' her job. If you ain't the beatenest!" Basking in the unaccustomed warmth of his mother's approval, Roger finished his supper in peace. Afterward, while she was clearing up, he even dared to take up the much-criticised book and lose himself once more in his father's beloved Emerson. * * * * * [Sidenote: Childish Memories] All his childish memories of his father had been blurred into one by the mists of the intervening years. As though it were yesterday, he could see the library upstairs, which was still the same, and the grave, silent, kindly man who sat dreaming over his books. When the child entered, half afraid because the room was so quiet, the man had risen and caught him in his arms with such hungry passion that he had almost cried out. "Oh, my son," came in the deep, rich voice, vibrant with tenderness; "my dear little son!" [Sidenote: The Priceless Legacy] That was all, save a few old photographs and the priceless legacy of the books. The library was not a large one, but it had been chosen by a man of discriminating, yet catholic, taste. The books had been used and were not, as so often happens, merely ornaments. Page after page had been interlined and there was scarcely a volume which was not rich in marginal notes, sometimes questioning in character, but indicating always understanding and appreciation. As soon as he learned to read, Roger began to spend his leisure hours in this library. When he could not understand a book, he put it aside and took up another. Always there were pictures and sometimes many of them, for in his later years Laurence Austin had contracted the baneful habit of extra-illustration. Never maternal, save in the limited physical sense, Miss Mattie had been glad to have the child out of her way. Day by day, the young mind grew and expanded in its own way. Year by year, Roger came to an affectionate knowledge of his father, through the medium of the marginal notes. He wondered, sometimes, that a pencil mark should so long outlive the fine, strong body of the man who made it. It seemed pitiful, in a way, and yet he knew that books and letters are the things that endure, in a world of transition and decay. The underlined passages and the marginal comments gave evidence of an extraordinary love of beauty, in whatever shape or form. And yet--the parlour, which was opened only on Sunday--was hideous with a gaudy carpet, stuffed chairs, family portraits done in crayon and inflicted upon the house by itinerant vendors of tea and coffee, and there was a basket of wax flowers, protected by glass, on the marble-topped "centre-table." The pride of Miss Mattie's heart was a chair, which, with incredible industry, she had made from an empty flour barrel. She had spoiled a good barrel to make a bad chair, but her thrifty soul rejoiced in her achievement. Roger never went near it, so Miss Mattie herself sat in it on Sunday afternoons, nodding, and crooning hymns to herself. [Sidenote: An Awful Chasm] "How did father stand it?" thought Roger, intending no disrespect. He loved his mother and appreciated her good qualities, but he saw the awful chasm between those two souls, which no ceremony of marriage could ever span. [Sidenote: Roger Austin] In appearance, Roger was like his father. He had the same clear, dark skin, with regular features and kind, dark eyes, the same abundant, wavy hair, strong, square chin, and incongruous, beauty-loving mouth. He had, too, the lovable boyishness, which never quite leaves some fortunate men. He was studying law in the judge's office, and hoped by another year to be ready to take his examinations. After working hard all day, he found refreshment for mind and body in an hour or so at night spent with the treasures of his father's library. "Let us buy our entrance to this guild with a long probation," read Roger. "Why should we desecrate noble and beautiful souls by intruding upon them? Why insist upon rash personal relations with your friend? Why go to his house, and know his mother and brother and sisters? Why be visited by him at your own? Are these things material to our covenant? Leave this touching and clawing. Let him be to me----" "I've spoke twice," complained Miss Mattie, "and you don't hear me no more'n your pa did." "I beg your pardon, Mother. I did not hear you come in. What is it?" "I was just a-sayin' that maybe those papers would be too expensive. Maybe I ought not to have 'em." "I'm sure they're not, Mother. Anyhow, you get them, and we'll make it up in some other way if we have to." Dimly, in the future, Roger saw long, quiet evenings in which his disturbing influence should be rendered null and void by the charms of _Lovely Lulu, or the Doctor's Darling_. [Sidenote: A Morning Call] "Barbara North sent her pa over here this morning to ask for some book. I disremember now what it was, but it was after you was gone." Roger's expressive face changed instantly. "Why didn't you tell me sooner, Mother?" He spoke with evident effort. "It's too late now for me to go over there." "There's no call for you to go over. They can send again. Miss Miriam can come after it any time. They ain't got no business to let a blind old man like Ambrose North run around by himself the way they do." "He takes very good care of himself. He knew this place before he was blind, and I don't think there is any danger." "Just the same, he ought not to go around alone, and that's what I told him this morning. 'A blind old man like you,' says I, 'ain't got no business chasin' around alone. First thing you know, you'll fall down and break a leg or arm or something.'" Roger shrank as if from a physical hurt. "Mother!" he cried. "How can you say such things!" "Why not?" she queried, imperturbably. "He knows he's blind, I guess, and he certainly can't think he's young, so what harm does it do to speak of it? Anyway," she added, piously, "I always say just what I think." Roger got up, put his hands in his pockets, and paced back and forth restlessly. "People who always say what they think, Mother," he answered, not unkindly, "assume that their opinions are of great importance to people who probably do not care for them at all. Unless directly asked, it is better to say only the kind things and keep the rest to ourselves." "I was kind," objected Miss Mattie. "I was tellin' him he ought not to take the risk of hurtin' himself by runnin' around alone. I don't know what ails you, Roger. Every day you get more and more like your pa." [Sidenote: Dangerous Rocks] "How long had you and father known each other before you were married?" asked Roger, steering quickly away from the dangerous rocks that will loom up in the best-regulated of conversations. "'Bout three months. Why?" "Oh, I just wanted to know." "I used to be a pretty girl, Roger, though you mightn't think it now." Her voice was softened, and, taking off her spectacles, she gazed far into space; seemingly to that distant girlhood when radiant youth lent to the grey old world some of its own immortal joy. "I don't doubt it," said Roger, politely. "Your pa and me used to go to church together. He sang in the choir and I had a white dress and a bonnet trimmed with lutestring ribbon. I can smell the clover now and hear the bees hummin' when the windows was open in Summer. A bee come in once while the minister was prayin' and lighted on Deacon Emory's bald head. Seems a'most as if 't was yesterday. [Sidenote: Great Notions] "Your pa had great notions," she went on, after a pause. "Just before we was married, he said he was goin' to educate me, but he never did." III The Tower of Cologne Roger sat in Ambrose North's easy chair, watching Barbara while she sewed. "I am sorry," he said, "that I wasn't at home when your father came over after the book. Mother was unable to find it. I'm afraid I'm not very orderly." "It doesn't matter," returned Barbara, threading her needle again. "I steal too much time from my work as it is." Roger sighed and turned restlessly in his chair. "I wish I could come over every day and read to you, but you know how it is. Days, I'm in the office with the musty old law books, and in the evenings, your father wants you and my mother wants me." "I know, but father usually goes to bed by nine, and I'm sure your mother doesn't sit up much later, for I usually see her light by that time. I always work until eleven or half past, so why shouldn't you come over then?" [Sidenote: A Happy Thought] "Happy thought!" exclaimed Roger. "Still, you might not always want me. How shall I know?" "I'll put a candle in the front window," suggested Barbara, "and if you can come, all right. If not, I'll understand." Both laughed delightedly at the idea, for they were young enough to find a certain pleasure in clandestine ways and means. Miss Mattie had so far determinedly set her face against her son's association with the young of the other sex, and even Barbara, who had been born lame and had never walked farther than her own garden, came under the ban. Ambrose North, with the keen and unconscious selfishness of age, begrudged others even an hour of Barbara's society. He felt a third person always as an intruder, though he tried his best to appear hospitable when anyone came. Miriam might sometimes have read to Barbara, while he was out upon his long, lonely walks, but it had never occurred to either of them. [Sidenote: World-wide Fellowship] Through Laurence Austin's library, as transported back and forth by Roger, one volume at a time, Barbara had come into the world-wide fellowship of those who love books. She was closely housed and constantly at work, but her mind soared free. When the poverty and ugliness of her surroundings oppressed her beauty-loving soul; when her fingers ached and the stitches blurred into mist before her eyes, some little brown book, much worn, had often given her the key to the House of Content. "Shall you always have to sew?" asked Roger. "Is there no way out?" [Sidenote: Glad of Work] "Not unless some fairy prince comes prancing up on a white charger," laughed Barbara, "and takes us all away with him to his palace. Don't pity me," she went on, her lips quivering a little, "for every day I'm glad I can do it and keep father from knowing we are poor. "Besides, I'm of use in the world, and I wouldn't want to live if I couldn't work. Aunt Miriam works, too. She does all the housework, takes care of me when I can't help myself, does the mending, many things for father, and makes the quilts, preserves, candied orange peel, and the other little things we sell. People are so kind to us. Last Summer the women at the hotel bought everything we had and left orders enough to keep me busy until long after Christmas." "Don't call people kind because they buy what they want." "Don't be so cynical. You wouldn't have them buy things they didn't want, would you?" "Sometimes they do." "Where?" "Well, at church fairs, for instance. They spend more than they can afford for things they do not want, in order to please people whom they do not like and help heathen who are much happier than they are." "I'm glad I'm not running a church fair," laughed Barbara. "And who told you that heathen are happier than we are? Are you a heathen?" "I don't know. Most of us are, I suppose, in one way or another. But how nice it would be if we could paint ourselves instead of wearing clothes, and go under a tree when it rained, and pick cocoanuts or bananas when we were hungry. It would save so much trouble and expense." "Paint is sticky," observed Barbara, "and the rain would come around the tree when the wind was blowing from all ways at once, as it does sometimes, and I do not like either cocoanuts or bananas. I'd rather sew. What went wrong to-day?" she asked, with a whimsical smile. "Everything?" "Almost," admitted Roger. "How did you know?" [Sidenote: Unfailing Barometer] "Because you want to be a heathen instead of the foremost lawyer of your time. Your ambition is an unfailing barometer." He laughed lightly. This sort of banter was very pleasing to him after a day with the law books and an hour or more with his mother. He had known Barbara since they were children and their comradeship dated back to the mud-pie days. "I don't know but what you're right," he said. "Whether I go to Congress or the Fiji Islands may depend, eventually, upon Judge Bascom's liver." "Don't let it depend upon him," cautioned Barbara. "Make your own destiny. It was Napoleon, wasn't it, who prided himself upon making his own circumstances? What would you do--or be--if you could have your choice?" [Sidenote: Aspirations] "The best lawyer in the State," he answered, promptly. "I'd never oppose the innocent nor defend the guilty. And I'd have money enough to be comfortable and to make those I love comfortable." "Would you marry?" she asked, thoughtfully. "Why--I suppose so. It would seem queer, though." "Roger," she said, abruptly, "you were born a year and more before I was, and yet you're fully ten or fifteen years younger." "Don't take me back too far, Barbara, for I hate milk. Please don't deprive me of my solid food. What would you do, if you could choose?" "I'd write a book." "What kind? Dictionary?" "No, just a little book. The sort that people who love each other would choose for a gift. Something that would be given to one who was going on a long or difficult journey. The one book a woman would take with her when she was tired and went away to rest. A book with laughter and tears in it and so much fine courage that it would be given to those who are in deep trouble. I'd soften the hard hearts, rest the weary ones, and give the despairing ones new strength to go on. Just a little book, but so brave and true and sweet and tender that it would bring the sun to every shady place." "Would you marry?" [Sidenote: The Right Man] "Of course, if the right man came. Otherwise not." "I wonder," mused Roger, "how a person could know the right one?" "Foolish child," she answered, "that's it--the knowing. When you don't know, it isn't it." "My dear Miss North," remarked Roger, "the heads of your argument are somewhat involved, but I think I grasp your meaning. When you know it is, then it is, but when you don't know that it is, then it isn't. Is that right?" "Exactly. Wonderfully intelligent for one so young." Barbara's blue eyes danced merrily and her red lips parted in a mocking smile. A long heavy braid of hair, "the colour of ripe corn," hung over either shoulder and into her lap. She was almost twenty-two, but she still clung to the childish fashion of dressing her hair, because the heavy braids and the hairpins made her head ache. All her gowns were white, either of wool or cotton, and were made to be washed. On Sundays, she sometimes wore blue ribbons on her braids. [Sidenote: Simply Barbara] To Roger, she was very fair. He never thought of her crutches because she had always been lame. She was simply Barbara, and Barbara needed crutches. It had never occurred to him that she might in any way be different, for he was not one of those restless souls who are forever making people over to fit their own patterns. "Why doesn't your father like to have me come here?" asked Roger, irrelevantly. "Why doesn't your mother like to have you come?" queried Barbara, quickly on the defensive. "No, but tell me. Please!" "Father always goes to bed early." "But not at eight o'clock. It was a quarter of eight when I came, and by eight he was gone." "It isn't you, Roger," she said, unwillingly; "it's anyone. I'm all he has, and if I talk much to other people he feels as if I were being taken away from him--that's all. It's natural, I suppose. You mustn't mind him." "But I wouldn't hurt him," returned Roger, softly; "you know that." "I know." "I wish you could make him understand that I come to see every one of you." [Sidenote: Hard Work] "It's the hardest work in the world," sighed Barbara, "to make people understand things." "Somebody said once that all the wars had been caused by one set of people trying to force their opinions upon another set, who did not desire to have their minds changed." "Very true. I wonder, sometimes, if we have done right with father." "I'm sure you have," said Roger, gently. "You couldn't do anything wrong if you tried." "We haven't meant to," she answered, her sweet face growing grave. "Of course it was all begun long before I was old enough to understand. He thinks the city house, which we lost so long ago that I cannot even remember our having it, was sold for so high a price that it would have been foolish not to sell it, and that we live here because we prefer the country. Just think, Roger, before I was born, this was father's and mother's Summer home, and now it's all we have." "It's a roof and four walls--that's all any house is, without the spirit that makes it home." "He thinks it's beautifully furnished. Of course we have the old mahogany and some of the pictures, but we've had to sell nearly everything. I've used some of mother's real laces in the sewing and sold practically all the rest. Whatever anyone would buy has been disposed of. Even the broken furniture in the attic has gone to people who had a fancy for 'antiques.'" "You have made him very happy, Barbara." "I know, but is it right?" "I'm not orthodox, my dear girl, but, speaking as a lawyer, if it harms no one and makes a blind old man happy, it can't be wrong." "I hope you're right, but sometimes my conscience bothers me." [Sidenote: A Saint's Conscience] "Imagine a saint's conscience being troublesome." "Don't laugh at me--you know I'm not a saint." "How should I know?" "Ask Aunt Miriam. She has no illusions about me." "Thanks, but I don't know her well enough. We haven't been on good terms since she drove me out of the melon patch--do you remember?" "Yes, I remember. We wanted the blossoms, didn't we, to make golden bells in the Tower of Cologne?" "I believe so. We never got the Tower finished, did we?" "No. I wasn't allowed to play with you for a long time, because you were such a bad boy." "Next Summer, I think we should rebuild it. Let's renew our youth sometime by making the Tower of Cologne in your back yard." "There are no golden bells." "I'll get some from somewhere. We owe it to ourselves to do it." Barbara's blue eyes were sparkling now, and her sweet lips smiled. "When it's done?" she asked. [Sidenote: Like Fairy Tales] "We'll move into it and be happy ever afterward, like the people in the fairy tales." "I said a little while ago that you were fifteen years younger than I am, but, upon my word, I believe it's nearer twenty." "That makes me an enticing infant of three or four, flourishing like the green bay tree on a diet of bread and milk with an occasional soft-boiled egg. I should have been in bed by six o'clock, and now it's--gracious, Barbara, it's after eleven. What do you mean by keeping the young up so late?" As he spoke, he hurriedly found his hat, and, reaching into the pocket of his overcoat, drew out a book. "That's the one you wanted, isn't it?" "Yes, thank you." "I didn't give it to you before because I wanted to talk, but we'll read, sometimes, when we can. Don't forget to put the light in the window when it's all right for me to come. If I don't, you'll understand. And please don't work so hard." Barbara smiled. "I have to earn a living for three healthy people," she said, "and everybody is trying, by moral suasion, to prevent me from doing it. Do you want us all piled up in the front yard in a nice little heap of bones before the Tower of Cologne is rebuilt?" Roger took both her hands and attempted to speak, but his face suddenly crimsoned, and he floundered out into the darkness like an awkward school-boy instead of a self-possessed young man of almost twenty-four. It had occurred to him that it might be very nice to kiss Barbara. [Sidenote: Back to Childhood] But Barbara, magically taken back to childhood, did not notice his confusion. The Tower of Cologne had been a fancy of hers ever since she could remember, though it had been temporarily eclipsed by the hard work which circumstances had thrust upon her. As she grew from childhood to womanhood, it had changed very little--the dream, always, was practically the same. [Sidenote: A Day Dream] The Tower itself was made of cologne bottles neatly piled together, and the brightly-tinted labels gave it a bizarre but beautiful effect. It was square in shape and very high, with a splendid cupola of clear glass arches--the labels probably would not show, up so high. It stood in an enchanted land with the sea behind it--nobody had ever thought of taking Barbara down to the sea, though it was so near. The sea was always blue, of course, like the sky, or the larkspur--she was never quite sure of the colour. The air all around the Tower smelled sweet, just like cologne. There was a flight of steps, also made of cologne bottles, but they did not break when you walked on them, and the door was always ajar. Inside was a great, winding staircase which led to the cupola. You could climb and climb and climb, and when you were tired, you could stop to rest in any of the rooms that were on the different floors. Strangely enough, in the Tower of Cologne, Barbara was never lame. She always left her crutches leaning up against the steps outside. She could walk and run like anyone else and never even think of crutches. There were many charming people in the Tower and none of them ever said, pityingly, "It's too bad you're lame." All the dear people of the books lived in the Tower of Cologne, besides many more, whom Barbara did not know. Maggie Tulliver, Little Nell, Dora, Agnes, Mr. Pickwick, King Arthur, the Lady of Shalott, and unnumbered others dwelt happily there. They all knew Barbara and were always glad to see her. Wonderful tapestries were hung along the stairs, there were beautiful pictures in every room, and whatever you wanted to eat was instantly placed before you. Each room smelled of a different kind of cologne and no two rooms were furnished alike. Her friends in the Tower were of all ages and of many different stations in life, but there was one whose face she had never seen. He was always just as old as Barbara, and was closer to her than the rest. [Sidenote: The Boy] When she lost herself in the queer winding passages, the Boy, whose face she was unable to picture, was always at her side to show her the way out. They both wanted to get up into the cupola and ring all the golden bells at once, but there seemed to be some law against it, for when they were almost there, something always happened. Either the Tower itself vanished beyond recall, or Aunt Miriam called her, or an imperative voice summoned the Boy downstairs--and Barbara would not think of going to the cupola without him. When she and Roger had begun to make mud pies together, she had told him about the Tower and got him interested in it, too--all but the Boy whose face she was unable to see and whose name she did not know. In the Tower, she addressed him simply as "Boy." Barbara kept him to herself for some occult reason. Roger liked the Tower very much, but thought the construction might possibly be improved. Barbara never allowed him to make any changes. He could build another Tower for himself, if he chose, and have it just as he wanted it, but this was her very own. It all seemed as if it were yesterday. "And," mused Barbara, "it was almost sixteen years ago, when I was six and Roger 'seven-going-on-eight,' as he always said." The dear Tower still stoodin her memory, but far off and veiled, like a mirage seen in the clouds. The Boy who helped her over the difficult places was a grown man now, tall and straight and strong, but she could not see his face. "It's queer," thought Barbara, as she put out the light. "I wonder if I ever shall." [Sidenote: An Enchanted Land] That night she dreamed of the Tower of Cologne, in the old, enchanted land, where a blue sky bent down to meet a bluer sea. She and the Boy were in the cupola, making music with the golden bells. Their laughter chimed in with the sweet sound of the ringing, but still, she could not see his face. IV The Seventh of June Barbara sat by the old chest which held her completed work, frowning prettily over a note-book in her lap. She was very methodical, and, in some inscrutable way, things had become mixed. She kept track of every yard of lace and linen and every spool of thread, for, it was evident, she must know the exact cost of the material and the amount of time spent on a garment before it could be accurately priced. [Sidenote: Finishing Touches] Aunt Miriam had carefully pressed the lingerie after it was made and laid it away in the chest with lavender to keep it from turning yellow. There remained only the last finishing touches. Aunt Miriam could have put in the ribbons as well as she could, but Barbara chose to do it herself. [Sidenote: Ways and Means] Three prices were put on each tag in Barbara's private cipher, understood only by Aunt Miriam. The highest was the one hoped for, the next the probable one, and the lowest one was to be taken only at the end of the season. Already four or five early arrivals were reported at the hotel. By the end of next week, it would be proper for Aunt Miriam to go down with a few of the garments packed in a box with tissue paper, and see what she could do. Barbara had used nearly all of her material and had sent for more, but, in the meantime, she was using the scraps for handkerchiefs, pin-cushion covers, and heart-shaped corsage pads, delicately scented and trimmed with lace and ribbon. Once, Aunt Miriam had gone to the city for material and patterns, and had priced hand-made lingerie in the shops. When she came back with an itemised report, Barbara had clapped her hands in glee, for she saw the wealth of Croesus looming up ahead. She had soon learned, however, that she must keep far below the city prices if she would tempt the horde of Summer visitors who came, yearly, to the hotel. At times, she thought that Aunt Miriam must have been dreadfully mistaken. Barbara put down the highest price of every separate article in the small, neat hand that Aunt Miriam had taught her to write--for she had never been to school. If she should sell everything, why, there would be more than a year of comfort for them all, and new clothes for father, who was beginning to look shabby. "But they won't," Barbara said to herself, sadly. "I can't expect them to buy it all when I'm asking so much." Down in the living-room, Ambrose North was inquiring restlessly for Barbara. "Yes," he said, somewhat impatiently, "I know she's upstairs, for you've told me so twice. What I want to know is, why doesn't she come down?" "She's busy at something, probably," returned Miriam, with forced carelessness, "but I think she'll soon be through." "Barbara is always busy," he answered, with a sigh. "I can't understand it. Anyone might think she had to work for a living. By the way, Miriam, do you need more money?" "We still have some," she replied, in a low voice. "How much?" he demanded. "Less than a hundred dollars." She did not dare to say how much less. "That is not enough. If you will get my check-book, I will write another check." [Sidenote: The Old Check-Book] Miriam's face was grimly set and her eyes burned strangely beneath her dark brows. She went to the mahogany desk and took an old check-book out of the drawer. "Now," he said, as she gave him the pen and ink, "please show me the line. 'Pay to the order of'----" She guided his hand with her own, trying to keep her cold fingers from trembling. "Miriam Leonard," he spelled out, in uneven characters, "Five--hundred--dollars. Signed--Ambrose--North. There. When you have no money, I wish you would speak of it. I am fully able to provide for my family, and I want to do it." "Thank you." Miriam's voice was almost inaudible as she took the check. "The date," he said; "I forgot to date it. What day of the month is it?" She moistened her parched lips, but did not speak. This was what she had been dreading. "The date, Miriam," he called. "Will you please tell me what day of the month it is?" "The seventh," she answered, with difficulty. "The seventh? The seventh of June?" "Yes." There was a long pause. "Twenty-one years," he said, in a shrill whisper. "Twenty-one years ago to-day." [Sidenote: A Dreadful Anniversary] Miriam sat down quietly on the other side of the room. Her eyes were glittering and she was moving her hands nervously. This dreadful anniversary had, for her, its own particular significance. Upstairs, Barbara, light-hearted and hopeful, was singing to herself while she pinned on the last of the price tags and built her air-castle. The song came down lightly, yet discordantly. It was as though a waltz should be played at an open grave. "Miriam," cried Ambrose North, passionately, "why did she kill herself? In God's name, tell me why!" "I do not know," murmured Miriam. He had asked her more than fifty times, and she always gave the same answer. "But you must know--someone must know! A woman does not die by her own hand without having a reason! She was well and strong, loved, taken care of and petted, she had all that the world could give her, and hosts of friends. I was blind and Barbara was lame, but she loved us none the less. If I only knew why!" he cried, miserably; "Oh, if I only knew why!" Miriam, unable to bear more, went out of the room. She pressed her cold hands to her throbbing temples. "I shall go mad," she muttered. "How long, O Lord, how long!" [Sidenote: Constance North] Twenty-one years ago to-day, Constance North had, intentionally, taken an overdose of laudanum. She had left a note to her husband begging him to forgive her, and thanking him for all his kindness to her during the three years they had lived together. She had also written a note to Miriam, asking her to look after the blind man and to be a mother to Barbara. Enclosed were two other letters, sealed with wax. One was addressed "To My Daughter, Barbara. To be opened on her twenty-second birthday." Miriam had both the letters safely put away. It was not time for Barbara to have hers and she had never delivered the other to the person to whom it was addressed--so often does the arrogant power of the living deny the holiest wishes of the dead. The whole scene came vividly back to Miriam--the late afternoon sun streaming in glory from the far hills into Constance North's dainty sitting-room, upstairs; the golden-haired woman, in the full splendour of her youth and beauty, lying upon the couch asleep, with a smile of heavenly peace upon her lips; the blind man's hands straying over her as she lay there, with his tears falling upon her face, and blue-eyed Barbara, cooing and laughing in her own little bed in the next room. [Sidenote: Years of Torture] Miriam had found the notes on the dressing-table, and had lied. She had said there were but two when, in reality, there were four. Two had been read and destroyed; the other two, with unbroken seals, were waiting to be read. She was keeping the one for Barbara; the other had tortured her through all of the twenty years. The time had passed when she could have delivered it, for the man to whom it was addressed was dead. But he had survived Constance by nearly five years, and, at any time during those five years, Miriam might have given it to him, unseen and safely. She justified herself by dwelling upon her care of Barbara and the blind man, and the fact that she would give Barbara her letter upon the appointed day. Sternly she said to herself: "I will fulfil one trust. I will keep faith with Constance in this one way, bitterly though she has wronged me." [Sidenote: Haunting Dreams] Yet the fulfilment of one trust seemed not to be enough, for her sleep was haunted by the pleading eyes of Constance, asking mutely for some boon. Until the man died, Constance had come often, with her hands outstretched, craving that which was so little and yet so much. After his death, Constance still continued to come, but less often and reproachfully; she seemed to ask for nothing now. Miriam had grown old, but Constance, though sad, was always young. One of Death's surpassing gifts is eternal youth to those whom he claims too soon. In her old husband's grieving heart, Constance had assumed immortal beauty as well as immortal youth. She was now no older than Barbara, who still sang heedlessly upstairs. Every night of the twenty-one years, Miriam had closed her eyes in dread. When she dreamed it was always of Constance--Constance laughing or singing, Constance bringing "the light that never was on sea or land" to the fine, grave face of Ambrose North; Constance hugging little lame Barbara to her breast with passionate, infinitely pitying love. And, above all, Constance in her grave-clothes, dumb, reproachful, her sad eyes fixed on Miriam in pleading that was almost prayer. "Miriam! Oh, Miriam!" The blind man in the next room was calling her. Fearfully, she went back. "Sit down," said Ambrose North. "Sit down near me, where I can touch your hand. How cold your fingers are! I want to thank you for all you have done for us--for my little girl and for me. You have been so faithful, so watchful, so obedient to her every wish." Miriam shrank from him, for the kindly words stung like a lash on flesh already quivering. [Sidenote: Miriam and Ambrose] "We have always been such good friends," he said, reminiscently. "Do you remember how much we were together all that year, until Constance came home from school?" "I have not forgotten," said Miriam, in a choking whisper. A surge of passionate hate swept over her even now, against the dead woman whose pretty face had swerved Ambrose North from his old allegiance. "And I shall not forget," he answered, kindly. "I am on the westward slope, Miriam, and have been, for a long time. But a few more years--or months--or days--as God wills, and I shall join her again, past the sunset, where she waits for me. "I have made things right for you and Barbara. Roger Austin has my will, dividing everything I have between you. I should like your share to go to Barbara, eventually, if you can see your way clear to do it." "Don't!" cried Miriam, sharply. The strain was insupportable. "I do not wish to pain you, Sister," answered the old man, with gentle dignity, "but sometimes it is necessary that these things be said. I shall not speak of it again. Will you give me back the check, please, and show me where to date it? I shall date it to-morrow--I cannot bear to write down this day." * * * * * When Barbara came down, her father was sitting at the old square piano, quite alone, improvising music that was both beautiful and sad. He seldom touched the instrument, but, when he did, wayfarers in the street paused to listen. "Are you making a song, Father?" she asked, softly, when the last deep chord died away. [Sidenote: Too Sad for Songs] "No," he sighed; "I cannot make songs to-day." "There is always a song, Daddy," she reminded him. "You told me so yourself." "Yes, I know, but not to-day. Do you know what to-day is, my dear?" "The seventh--the seventh of June." "Twenty-one years ago to-day," he said, with an effort, "your dear mother took her own life." The last words were almost inaudible. Barbara went to him and put her soft arms around his neck. "Daddy!" she whispered, with infinite sympathy, "Daddy!" He patted her arm gently, unable to speak. She said no more, but the voice and the touch brought healing to his pain. Bone of her bone and flesh of her flesh, the daughter of the dead Constance was thrilled unspeakably with a tenderness that the other had never given him. "Sit down, my dear," said Ambrose North, slowly releasing her. "I want to talk to you--of her. Did I hear Aunt Miriam go out?" "Yes, just a few minutes ago." "You are almost twenty-two, are you not, Barbara?" "Yes, Daddy." "Then you are a woman grown. Your dear mother was twenty-two, when--" He choked on the words. "When she died," whispered Barbara, her eyes luminous with tears. [Sidenote: A Torturing Doubt] [Sidenote: A Change] "Yes, when she--died. I have never known why, Barbara, unless it was because I was blind and you were lame. But all these years there has been a torturing doubt in my heart. Before you were born, and after my blindness, I fancied that a change came over her. She was still tender and loving, but it was not quite in the same way. Sometimes I felt that she had ceased to love me. Do you think my blindness could--?" "Never, Father, never." Barbara's voice rang out strong and clear. "That would only have made her love you more." "Thank you, my dear. Someway it comforts me to have you say it. But, after you came, I felt the change even more keenly. You have read in the books, doubtless, many times, that a child unites those who bring it into the world, but I have seen, quite as often, that it divides them by a gulf that is never bridged again." "Daddy!" cried Barbara, in pain. "Didn't you want me?" "Want you?" he repeated, in a tone that made the words a caress. "I wanted you always, and every day I want you more. I am only trying to say that her love seemed to lessen, instead of growing, as time went on. If I could know that she died loving me, I would not ask why. If I could know that she died loving me--if I were sure she loved me still--" "She did, Daddy--I know she did." "If I might only be so sure! But the ways of the Everlasting are not our ways, and life is made up of waiting." Insensibly relieved by speech, his pain gradually merged into quiet acceptance, if not resignation. "Shall you marry some day, Barbara?" he asked, at last. "If the right man comes--otherwise not." "Much is written of it in the books, and I know you read a great deal, but some things in the books are not true, and many things that are true are not written. They say that a man of fifty should not marry a girl of twenty and expect to be happy. Miriam was fifteen years older than Constance and at first I thought of her, but when your mother came from school, with her blue eyes and golden hair and her pretty, laughing ways, there was but one face in all the world for me. "We were so happy, Barbara! The first year seemed less than a month, it passed so quickly. The books will tell you that the first joy dies. Perhaps it does, but I do not know, because our marriage lasted only three years. It may be that, after many years, the heart does not beat faster at the sound of the beloved's step; that the touch of the loving hand brings no answering clasp. [Sidenote: Gift of Marriage] "But the divinest gift of marriage is this--the daily, unconscious growing of two souls into one. Aspirations and ambitions merge, each with the other, and love grows fast to love. Unselfishness answers to unselfishness, tenderness responds to tenderness, and the highest joy of each is the well-being of the other. The words of Church and State are only the seal of a predestined compact. Day by day and year by year the bond becomes closer and dearer, until at last the two are one, and even death is no division. [Sidenote: If----] "A grave has lain between us for more than twenty years, but I am still her husband--there has been no change. And, if she died loving me, she is still mine. If she died loving me--if--she--died--loving me----" His voice broke at the end, and he went out, murmuring the words to himself. Barbara watched him from the window as he opened the gate. Her face was wet with tears. Flaming banners of sunset streamed from the hills beyond him, but his soul could see no Golden City to-night. He went up the road that led to another hillside, where, in the long, dreamy shadows, the dwellers in God's acre lay at peace. Barbara guessed where he was going and her heart ached for him--kneeling in prayer and vigil beside a sunken grave, to ask of earth a question to which the answer was lost, in heaven--or in hell. V Eloise [Sidenote: A Summer Hotel] The hotel was a long, low, rambling structure, with creaky floors and old-fashioned furniture. But the wide verandas commanded a glorious view of the sea, no canned vegetables were served at the table, and there was no orchestra. Naturally, it was crowded from June to October with people who earnestly desired quiet and were willing to go far to get it. The inevitable row of rocking-chairs swayed back and forth on the seaward side. Most of them were empty, save, perhaps, for the ghosts of long-dead gossips who had sat and rocked and talked and rocked from one meal to the next. The paint on the veranda was worn in a long series of parallel lines, slightly curved, but nobody cared. No phonograph broke upon the evening stillness with an ear-splitting din, no unholy piccolo sounded above the other tortured instruments, no violin wailed pitifully at its inhuman treatment, and the piano was locked. At seasonable hours the key might be had at the office by those who could prove themselves worthy of the trust, but otherwise quiet reigned. [Sidenote: Eloise Wynne] Miss Eloise Wynne came downstairs, with a book under her arm. She was fresh as the morning itself and as full of exuberant vitality. She was tall and straight and strong; her copper-coloured hair shone as though it had been burnished, and her tanned cheeks had a tint of rose. When she entered the dining-room, with a cheery "good-morning" that included everybody, she produced precisely the effect of a cool breeze from the sea. She was thirty, and cheerfully admitted it on occasion. "If I don't look it," she said, smiling, "people will be surprised, and if I do, there would be no use in denying it. Anyhow, I'm old enough to go about alone." It was her wont to settle herself for Summer or Winter in any place she chose, with no chaperon in sight. For a week she had been at Riverdale-by-the-Sea, and liked it on account of the lack of entertainment. People who lived there called it simply "Riverdale," but the manager of the hotel, perhaps to atone for the missing orchestra and canned vegetables, added "by-the-Sea" to the name in his modest advertisements. Miss Wynne, fortunately, had enough money to enable her to live the much-talked-of "simple life," which is wildly impossible to the poor. As it was not necessary for her to concern herself with the sordid and material, she could occupy herself with the finer things of the soul. Just now, however, she was deeply interested in the material foundation of the finest thing in the world--a home. [Sidenote: A Passion for Lists] She had taken the bizarre paper slip which protected the even more striking cover of a recent popular novel, and adjusted it to a bulky volume of very different character. In her chatelaine bag she had a pencil and a note-book, for Miss Eloise was sorely afflicted with the note-book habit, and had a passion for reducing everything to lists. She had lists of things she wanted and lists of things she didn't want, which circumstances or well-meaning Santa Clauses had forced upon her; little books of addresses and telephone numbers, jewels and other personal belongings, and, finally, a catalogue of her library alphabetically arranged by author and title. Immediately after breakfast, she went off with a long, swinging stride which filled her small audience with envy and admiration. Disjointed remarks, such as "skirt a little too short, but good tailor," and "terrible amount of energy," and "wonder where she's going," followed her. These comments were audible, had she been listening, but she had the gift of keeping solitude in a crowd. Far along the beach she went, hatless, her blood singing with the joy of life. A June morning, the sea, youth, and the consciousness of being loved--for what more could one ask? The diamond on the third finger of her left hand sparkled wonderfully in the sunlight. It was the only ring she wore. [Sidenote: The Cook Book] Presently, she found a warm, soft place behind a sand dune. She reared upon the dune a dark green parasol with a white border, and patted sand around the curved handle until it was, as she thought, firmly placed. Then she settled her skirts comfortably and opened her book, for the first time. "It looks bad," she mused. "Wonder what a carbohydrate is. And proteids--where do you buy 'em? Albuminoids--I've been from Maine to Florida and have never seen any. They must be germs. "However," she continued, to herself, "I have a trained mind, and 'keeping everlastingly at it brings success.' It would be strange if three hours of hard study every day, on the book the man in the store said was the best ever, didn't produce some sort of definite result. But, oh, how Allan would laugh at me!" The book fell on the sand, unheeded. The brown eyes looked out past the blue surges to some far Castle in Spain. Her thoughts refused to phrase themselves in words, but her pulses leaped with the old, immortal joy. The sun had risen high in the shining East before she returned to her book. "This isn't work," she sighed to herself; "away with the dreams." Before long, she got out her note-book. "A fresh fish," she wrote, "does not smell fishy and its eyes are bright and its gills red. A tender chicken or turkey has a springy breast bone. If you push it down with your finger, it springs back. A leg of lamb has to have the tough, outer parchment-like skin taken off with a sharp knife. Some of the oil of the wool is in it and makes it taste muttony and bad. A lobster should always be bought when he is alive and green and boiled at home. Then you know he is fresh. Save everything for soup." [Sidenote: The Air of Knowing] "I will go out into the kitchen," mused Eloise, "and I will have the air of knowing all about everything. I will say: 'Mary Ann, I have ordered a lobster for you to boil. We will have a salad for lunch. And I trust you have saved everything that was left last night for to-night's soup.' Mary Ann will be afraid of me, and Allan will be _so_ proud." "'I thought I told you,' continued Eloise, to herself, 'to save all the crumbs. Doctor Conrad does not like to have everything salt and he prefers to make the salad dressing himself. Do not cook any cereal the mornings we have oranges or grape-fruit--the starch and acid are likely to make a disturbance inside. Four people are coming to dinner this evening. I have ordered some pink roses and we will use the pink candle-shades. Or, wait--I had forgotten that my hair is red. Use the green candle-shades and I will change the roses to white.'" [Sidenote: A Frolicsome Wind] A frolicsome little wind, which had long been ruffling the waves of Eloise's copper-coloured hair, took the note-book out of her lap and laid it open on the sand some little distance away. Then, after making merry with the green parasol, it lifted it bodily by its roots out of the sand dune and went gaily down the beach with it. Eloise started in pursuit, but the wind and the parasol out-distanced her easily. Rounding the corner of another dune, she saw the parasol, with all sails set, jauntily embarked toward Europe. Turning away, disconsolate, she collided with a big blonde giant who took her into his arms, saying, "Never mind--I'll get you another." When the first raptures had somewhat subsided, Eloise led him back to the place where the parasol had started from. "When and where from and how did you come?" she asked, hurriedly picking up her books. "This morning, from yonder palatial hotel, on foot," he answered. "I thought you'd be out here somewhere. I didn't ask for you--I wanted to hunt you up myself." "But I might have been upstairs," she said, reproachfully. "On a morning like this? Not unless you've changed in the last ten days, and you haven't, except to grow lovelier." "But why did you come?" she asked. "Nobody told you that you could." "Sweet," said Allan, softly, possessing himself of her hand, "did you think I could stay away from you two whole weeks? Ten days is the limit--a badly strained limit at that." The colour surged into her face. She was radiant, as though with some inner light. The atmosphere around her was fairly electric with life and youth and joy. [Sidenote: Dr. Conrad] Doctor Allan Conrad was very good to look at. He had tawny hair and kind brown eyes, a straight nose, and a good firm chin. He wore eye-glasses, and his face might have seemed severe had it not been discredited by his mouth. He was smooth-shaven, and knew enough to wear brown clothes instead of grey. Eloise looked at him approvingly. Every detail of his attire satisfied her fastidious sense. If he had worn a diamond ring or a conspicuous tie, he might not have occupied his present proud position. His unfailing good taste was a great comfort to her. "How long can you stay?" she inquired. "Nice question," he laughed, "to ask an eager lover who has just come. Sounds a good deal like 'Here's-your-hat-what's-your-hurry?' Before I knew you, I used to go to see a girl sometimes who always said, at ten o'clock: 'I'm so glad you came. When can you come again?' The first time she did it I told her I couldn't come again until I had gone away this time." "And afterward?" [Sidenote: Forgetting the Clock] "I kept going away earlier and earlier, and finally it was so much earlier that I went before I had come. If I can't make a girl forget the clock, I have no call to waste my valuable time on her, have I?" Assuming a frown with difficulty, Miss Wynne consulted her watch. "Why, it's only half-past eleven," she exclaimed; "I thought it was much later." "You darling," said the man, irrelevantly. "What are you reading?" Before she could stop him, he had picked up the book and nearly choked in a burst of unseemly merriment. "Upon my word," he said, when he could speak. "A cook book! A classmate of mine used to indulge himself in floral catalogues when he wanted to rest his mind with light literature, but I never heard of a cook book as among the 'books for Summer reading' that the booksellers advertise." "Why not?" retorted Eloise, quickly. "No real reason. Lots of worse things are printed and sold by thousands, but, someway, I can't seem to reconcile you--and your glorious voice--with a cook-book." "Allan Conrad," said Miss Wynne, with affected sternness, "if you hadn't studied medicine, would you be practising it now?" "No," admitted Allan; "not with the laws as they are in this State." "If I had no voice and had never studied music, would I be singing at concerts?" "Not twice." "If a girl had never seen a typewriter and didn't know the first thing about shorthand, would she apply for a position as a stenographer?" "They do," said Allan, gloomily. [Sidenote: Preparation] "Don't dissemble, please. My point is simply this: If every other occupation in the world demands some previous preparation, why shouldn't a girl know something about housekeeping and homemaking before she undertakes it?" "But, my dear, you're not going to cook." "I am if I want to," announced Eloise, with authority. "And, anyhow, I'm going to know. Do you think I'm going to let some peripatetic, untrained immigrant manage my house for me? I guess not." "But cooking isn't theory," he ventured, picking up the note-book; "it's practice. What good is all this going to do you when you have no stove?" "Don't you remember the famous painter who told inquiring visitors that he mixed his paints with brains? I am now cooking with my mind. After my mind learns to cook, my hands will find it simple enough. And some time, when you come in at midnight and have had no dinner, and the immigrant has long since gone to sleep, you may be glad to be presented with panned oysters, piping hot, instead of a can of salmon and a can-opener." "Bless your heart," answered Allan, fondly. "It's dear of you, and I hope it'll work. I'm starving this minute--kiss me." "'Longing is divine compared with satiety,'" she reminded him, as she yielded. "How could you get away? Was nobody ill?" "Nobody would have the heart to be ill on a Saturday in June, when a doctor's best girl was only fifty miles away. Monday, I'll go back and put some cholera or typhoid germs in the water supply, and get nice and busy. Who's up yonder?" indicating the hotel. "Nobody we know, but very few of the guests have come, so far." [Sidenote: "Guests"] "In all our varied speech," commented Allan, "I know of nothing so exquisitely ironical as alluding to the people who stop at a hotel as 'guests.' In Mexico, they call them 'passengers,' which is more in keeping with the facts. Fancy the feelings of a real guest upon receiving a bill of the usual proportions. I should consider it a violation of hospitality if a man at my house had to pay three prices for his dinner and a tip besides." "You always had queer notions," remarked Eloise, with a sidelong glance which set his heart to pounding. "We'll call them inmates if you like it better. As yet, there are only eight inmates besides ourselves, though more are coming next week. Two old couples, one widow, one _divorcée_, and two spinsters with life-works." "No galloping cherubs?" "School isn't out yet." [Sidenote: Life-Works] "I see. It wouldn't be the real thing unless there were little ones to gallop through the corridors at six in the morning and weep at the dinner table. What are the life-works?" "One is writing a book, I understand, on _The Equality of the Sexes_. The other--oh, Allan, it's too funny." "Spring it," he demanded. "She's trying to have cornet-playing introduced into the public schools. She says that tuberculosis and pneumonia are caused by insufficient lung development, and that cornet-playing will develop the lungs of the rising generation. Fancy going by a school during the cornet hour." "I don't know why they shouldn't put cornet-playing into the schools," he observed, after a moment of profound thought. "Everything else is there now. Why shouldn't they teach crime, and even make a fine art of it?" "If you let her know you're a doctor," cautioned Eloise, "she'll corner you, and I shall never see you again. She says that she 'hopes, incidentally, to enlist the sympathies of the medical profession.'" "She's beginning at the wrong end. Cornet manufacturers and the people who keep sanitariums and private asylums are the co-workers she wants. I couldn't live through the coming Winter were it not for pneumonia. It means coal, and repairs for the automobile, and furs for my wife--when I get one." "Come," said Eloise, springing to her feet; "let's go up and get ready for luncheon." "Have you told me all?" asked Allan, "or is there some gay young troubadour who serenades you in the evening and whose existence you conceal from me for reasons of your own?" [Sidenote: A Pathetic Little Woman] "Nary a troubadour," she replied. "I haven't seen another soul except a pathetic little woman who came up to the hotel yesterday afternoon to sell the most exquisite things you ever saw. Think of offering hand-made lingerie, of sheer, embroidered lawn and batiste and linen, to _that_ crowd! The old ladies weren't interested, the spinsters sniffed, the widow wept, and only the _divorcée_ took any notice of it. The prices were so ridiculous that I wouldn't let her unpack the box. I'd be ashamed to pay her the price she asked. It's made by a little lame girl up the main road. I'm to go up there sometime next week." "Fairy godmother?" asked Allan, good-naturedly. He had known Eloise for many years. "Perhaps," she answered, somewhat shamefaced. "What's the use of having money if you don't spend it?" [Sidenote: A Human Interest] They went into the hotel together, utterly oblivious of the eight pairs of curious eyes that were fastened upon them in a frank, open stare. The rocking-chairs scraped on the veranda as they instinctively drew closer together. A strong human interest, imperatively demanding immediate discussion, had come to Riverdale-by-the-Sea. VI A Letter [Sidenote: Discouraging Prospects] Miriam had come home disappointed and secretly afraid to hope for any tangible results from Miss Wynne's promised visit. Nevertheless, she told Barbara. "Wouldn't any of them even look at it, Aunty?" "One of them would have looked at it and rumpled it so that I'd have had to iron it again, but she wouldn't have bought anything. This young lady said she was busy just then, and she wanted to come up and look over all the things at her leisure. She won't pay much, though, even if she buys anything. She said the price was 'ridiculous.'" "Perhaps she meant it was too low," suggested Barbara. "Possibly," answered Miriam. Her tone indicated that it was equally possible for canary birds to play the piano, or for ducks to sing. "How does she look?" queried Barbara. "Well enough." Enthusiasm was not one of Miriam's attractions. "What did she have on?" "White. Linen, I think." "Then she knows good material. Was her gown tailor-made?" "Might have been. Why?" "Because if her white linen gowns are tailored she has money and is used to spending it for clothes. I'm sure she meant the price was too low. Did she say when she was coming?" "Next week. She didn't say what day." [Sidenote: Waiting] "Then," sighed Barbara, "all we can do is to wait." "We'll wait until she comes, or has had time to. In the meantime, I'm going to show my quilts to those old ladies and take down a jar or two of preserves. I wish you'd write to the people who left orders last year, and ask if they want preserves or jam or jelly, or pickles, or quilts, or anything. It would be nice to get some orders in before we buy the fruit." Barbara put down her book, asked for the pen and ink, and went cheerfully to work, with the aid of Aunt Miriam's small memorandum book which contained a list of addresses. "What colour is her hair, Aunty?" she asked, as she blotted and turned her first neat page. "A good deal the colour of that old copper tea-kettle that a woman paid six dollars for once, do you remember? I've always thought she was crazy, for she wouldn't even let me clean it." "And her eyes?" "Brown and big, with long lashes. She looks well enough, and her voice is pleasant, and I must say she has nice ways. She didn't make me feel like a peddler, as so many of them do. P'raps she'll come," admitted Miriam, grudgingly. "Oh, I hope so. I'd love to see her and her pretty clothes, even if she didn't buy anything." Barbara threw back a golden braid impatiently, wishing it were copper-coloured and had smooth, shiny waves in it, instead of fluffing out like an undeserved halo. While Barbara was writing, her father came in and sat down near her. "More sewing, dear?" he asked, wistfully. [Sidenote: Writing Letters] "No, Daddy, not this time. I'm just writing letters." "I didn't know you ever got any letters--do you?" "Oh, yes--sometimes. The people at the hotel come up to call once in a while, you know, and after they go away, Aunt Miriam and I occasionally exchange letters with them. It's nice to get letters." The old man's face changed. "Are you lonely, dear?" "Lonely?" repeated Barbara, laughing; "why I don't even know what the word means. I have you and my books and my sewing and these letters to write, and I can sit in the window and nod to people who go by--how could I be lonely, Daddy?" "I want you to be happy, dear." "So I am," returned the girl, trying hard to make her voice even. "With you, and everything a girl could want, why shouldn't I be happy?" Miriam went out, closing the door quietly, and the blind man drew his chair very near to Barbara. [Sidenote: Dreaming] "I dream," he said, "and I keep on dreaming that you can walk and I can see. What do you suppose it means? I never dreamed it before." "We all have dreams, Daddy. I've had the same one very often ever since I was a little child. It's about a tower made of cologne bottles, with a cupola of lovely glass arches, built on the white sand by the blue sea. Inside is a winding stairway hung with tapestries, leading to the cupola where the golden bells are. There are lovely rooms on every floor, and you can stop wherever you please." "It sounds like a song," he mused. "Perhaps it is. Can't you make one of it?" "No--we each have to make our own. I made one this morning." "Tell me, please." [Sidenote: Love Never Lost] "It is about love. When God made the world, He put love in, and none of it has ever been lost. It is simply transferred from one person to another. Sometimes it takes a different form, and becomes a deed, which, at first, may not look as if it were made of love, but, in reality, is. "Love blossoms in flowers, sings in moving waters, fills the forest with birds, and makes all the wonderful music of Spring. It puts the colour upon the robin's breast, scents the orchard with far-reaching drifts of bloom, and scatters the pink and white petals over the grass beneath. Through love the flower changes to fruit, and the birds sing lullabies at twilight instead of mating songs. "It is at the root of everything good in all the world, and where things are wrong, it is only because sometime, somewhere, there has not been enough love. The balance has been uneven and some have had too much while others were starving for it. As the lack of food stunts the body, so the denial of love warps the soul. "But God has made it so that love given must unfailingly come back an hundred-fold; the more we give, the richer we are. And Heaven is only a place where the things that have gone wrong here will at last come right. Is it not so, Barbara?" "Surely, Daddy." "Then," he continued, anxiously, "all my loving must come back to me sometime, somewhere. I think it will be right, for God Himself is Love." The blind man's sensitive fingers lovingly sought Barbara's face. His touch was a caress. "I am sure you are like your dear mother," he said, softly. "If I could know that she died loving me, and if I could see her face again, just for an instant, why, all the years of loving, with no answer, would be fully repaid." "She loved you, Daddy--I know she did." [Sidenote: The Old Doubt] "I know, too, but not always. Sometimes the old, tormenting doubt comes back to me." "It shouldn't--mother would never have meant you to doubt her." "Barbara," cried the old man, with sudden passion, "if you ever love a man, never let him doubt you--always let him be sure. There is so much in a man's world that a woman knows nothing of. When he comes home at night, tired beyond words, and sick to death of the world and its ways, make him sure. When he thinks himself defeated, make him sure. When you see him tempted to swerve even the least from the straight path, make him sure. When the last parting comes, if he is leaving you, give him the certainty to take with him into his narrow house, and make his last sleep sweet. And if you are the one to go first, and leave him, old and desolate and stricken, oh, Barbara, make him sure then--make him very sure." [Sidenote: A String of Pearls] The girl's hand closed tightly upon his. He leaned over to pat her cheek and stroke the heavy braids of silken hair. Then he felt the strand of beads around her neck. "You have on your mother's pearls," he said. His fine old face illumined as he touched the tawdry trinket. Barbara swallowed the hard lump in her throat. "Yes, Daddy." They had lived for years upon that single strand of large, perfectly matched pearls which Ambrose North had clasped around his young wife's neck upon their wedding day. "Would you like more pearls, dear? A bracelet, or a ring?" "No--these are all I want." "I want to give you a diamond ring some day, Barbara. Your mother's was buried with her. It was her engagement ring." "Perhaps somebody will give me an engagement ring," she suggested. "I shouldn't wonder. I don't want to be selfish, dear. You are all I have, but, if you loved a man, I wouldn't try to keep you away from him." "Prince Charming hasn't come yet, Daddy, so cheer up. I'll tell you when he does." Thus she turned the talk into a happier vein. They were laughing together like two children when Miriam came in to say that supper was ready. [Sidenote: Alone] Afterward, he sat at the piano, improvising low, sweet chords that echoed back plaintively from the dingy walls. The music was full of questioning, of pleading, of longing so deep that it was almost prayer. Barbara finished her letters by the light of the lamp, while Miriam sat in the dining-room alone, asking herself the old, torturing questions, facing her temptation, and bearing the old, terrible hunger of the heart that hurt her like physical pain. A little before nine o'clock, the blind man came to kiss Barbara good-night. Then he went upstairs. Miriam came in and talked a few minutes of quilts, pickles, and lingerie, then she, too, went up to begin her usual restless night. Left alone, Barbara discovered that she did not care to read. It was too late to begin work upon the new stock of linen, lawn, and batiste which had come the day before, and she lacked the impulse, in the face of such discouraging prospects as Aunt Miriam had encountered at the hotel. Barbara steadily refused to admit, even to herself, that she was discouraged, but she found no pleasure in the thought of her work. [Sidenote: A Light in the Window] She unfastened the front door, lighted a candle, and set it upon the sill of the front window. Within twenty minutes Roger had come, entering the house so quietly that Barbara did not hear his step and was frightened when she saw him. "Don't scream," he said, as he closed the door leading into the hall. "I'm not a burglar--only a struggling young law student with no prospects and even less hope." "I infer," said Barbara, "that the Bascom liver is out of repair." "Correct. It seems absurd, doesn't it, to be affected by another man's liver while you are supremely unconscious of your own?" "There are more things in other people's digestions than our philosophy can account for," she replied, with a wicked perversion of classic phrase. "What was the primary cause of the explosion?" "It was all his own fault," explained Roger. "I like dogs almost as well as I do people, but it doesn't follow that dogs should mix so constantly with people as they usually are allowed to. I was never in favour of Judge Bascom's bull pup keeping regular office hours with us, but he has, ever since the day he waddled in behind the Judge with a small chain as the connecting link. I got so accustomed to his howling in the corner of the office where he was chained up that I couldn't do my work properly when he was asleep. So all went well until the Judge decided to remove the chain and give the pup more room to develop himself in. [Sidenote: "Pethood"] "I tried to dissuade him, but it was no use. I told him he would run away, and he said, with great dignity, that he did not desire for a pet anything which had to be tied up in order to be retained. He observed that the restraining influence worked against the pethood so strongly as practically to obscure it." "New word?" laughed Barbara. "I don't know why it isn't a good word," returned Roger, in defence. "If 'manhood' and 'womanhood' and 'brotherhood' and all the other 'hoods' are good English, I see no reason why 'pethood' shouldn't be used in the same sense. The English language needs a lot of words added to it before it can be called complete." "One wouldn't think so, judging by the size of the dictionary. However, we'll let it pass. Go on with the story." "Things have been lively for a week or more. The pup has romped around a good deal and has playfully bitten a client or two, but the Judge has been highly edified until to-day. Fido got an important legal document which the Judge had just drafted, and literally chewed it to pulp. Then he swallowed it, apparently with great relish. I was told to make another, and my not knowing about it, and taking the liberty of asking a few necessary questions, produced the fireworks. It wasn't Fido's fault, but mine." "How is Fido?" queried Barbara, with affected anxiety. "He was well at last accounts, but the document was long enough and complicated enough to make him very ill. I hope he'll die of it to-morrow." "Perhaps he's going to study law, too," remarked Barbara, "and believes, with Macaulay, that 'a page digested is better than a book hurriedly read.'" "I think that will do, Miss North. I'll read to you now, if you don't mind. I would fain improve myself instead of listening to such childish chatter." "Perhaps, if you read to me enough, I'll improve so that even you will enjoy talking to me," she returned, with a mischievous smile. "What did you bring over?" [Sidenote: A New Book] "A new book--that is, one that we've never seen before. There is a large box of father's books behind some trunks in the attic, and I never found them until Sunday, when I was rummaging around up there. I haven't read them--I thought I'd make a list of them first, and you can choose those you'd like to have me read to you. I brought this little one because I was sure you'd like it, after reading _Endymion_ and _The Eve of St. Agnes_." "What is it?" "Keats's letters to Fanny Brawne." The little brown book was old and its corners were dog-eared, but the yellowed pages, with their record of a deathless passion, were still warmly human and alive. Roger had a deep, pleasant voice, and he read well. Quite apart from the beauty of the letters, it gave Barbara pleasure to sit in the firelight and watch his face. [Sidenote: A Folded Paper] He read steadily, pausing now and then for comment, until he was half-way through the volume; then, as he turned a page, a folded paper fell out. He picked it up curiously. "Why, Barbara," he said, in astonishment. "It's my father's writing." "What is it--notes?" "No, he seems to have been trying to write a letter like those in the book. It is all in pencil, with changes and erasures here and there. Listen: [Sidenote: The Letter] "'You are right, as you always are, and we must never see each other again. We must live near each other for the rest of our lives, with that consciousness between us. We must pass each other on the street and not speak unless others are with us; then we must bow, pleasantly, for the sake of appearances. "'I hope you do not blame me because I went mad. I ask your pardon, and yet I cannot say I am sorry. That one hour of confession is worth a lifetime of waiting--it is worth all the husks that we are to have henceforward while we starve for more. "'Through all the years to come, we shall be separated by less than a mile, yet the world lies between us and divides us as by a glittering sword. You will not be unfaithful to your pledge, nor I to mine. Nothing is changed there. It is only that two people chose to live in the starlight and bound themselves to it eternally, then had one blinding glimpse of God's great sun. "'But, Constance, the stars are the same as always, and we must try to forget that we have seen the sun. The little lights of the temple must be the more faithfully tended if the Great Light goes out. When the white splendour fades, we must be content with the misty gold of night, and not mind the shadows nor the great desolate spaces where not even starlight comes. Your star and mine met for an instant, then were sundered as widely as the poles, but the light of each must be kept steadfast and clear, because of the other. "'I do not know that I shall have the courage to send this letter. Everything was said when I told you that I love you, for that one word holds it all and there is nothing more. As you can take your heart in the hollow of your hand and hold it, it is so small a thing; so the one word 'love' holds everything that can be said, or given, or hungered for, or prayed for and denied. "'And if, sometimes, in the starlight, we dream of the sun, we must remember that both sun and stars are God's. Past the unutterable leagues that divide us now, one day we shall meet again, purged, mayhap, of earthly longing for earthly love. "'But Heaven, for me, would be the hour I held you close again. I should ask nothing more than to tell you once more, face to face and heart to heart, the words I write now: I love you--I love you--I love you.'" [Sidenote: A Discovery] Roger put down the book and stared fixedly at the fire. Barbara's face was very pale and the light had gone from her eyes. "Roger," she said, in a strange tone, "Constance was my mother's name. Do you think----" He was startled, for his thought had not gone so far as her intuition. "I--do--not--know," he said. "They knew each other," Barbara went on, swiftly, "for the two families have always lived here, in these same two houses where you and I were born. It was only a step across the road, and they----" [Sidenote: A Barrier] She choked back a sob. Something new and terrible seemed to have sprung up suddenly between her and Roger. The blood beat hard in his ears and his own words sounded dull and far away. "It is dated June third," he said. "My mother died on the seventh," said Barbara, slowly, "by--her--own--hand." They sat in silence for a long time. Then, speaking of indifferent things, they tried to get back upon the old friendly footing again, but failed miserably. There was a consciousness as of guilt, on either side. Roger tried not to think of it. Later, when he was alone, he would go over it all and try to reason it out--try to discover if it were true. Barbara did not need to do this, for, with a woman's quick insight, she knew. Secretly, too, both were ashamed, having come unawares upon knowledge that was not meant for them. Presently, Roger went home, and was glad to be alone in the free outer air; but, long after he was gone, Barbara sat in the dark, her heart aching with the burden of her father's doubt and her dead mother's secret. VII An Afternoon Call The rap at the Norths' front door was of the sort which would impel the dead to rise and answer it. Before the echo of the imperative summons had died away, Miriam had opened it and admitted Miss Mattie. [Sidenote: Bein' Neighbourly] "I was sewin' over to my house," announced the visitor, settling herself comfortably, "and I surmised as how you might be sewin' over here, so I thought we might as well set together for a spell. I believe in bein' neighbourly." Barbara smiled a welcome and Miriam brought in a quilt which she was binding by hand. As she worked, she studied Miss Mattie furtively, and with an air of detachment. "I come over on the trail Roger has wore in the grass," continued Miss Mattie, biting off her thread with a snap. "He's organised himself into sort of a travellin' library, I take it, what with transportin' books at all hours back and forth. After I go to bed, Roger lets himself out and sneaks over here, carryin' readin' matter both ways. But land's sake," she chuckled, "I ain't carin' what he does after I get sleepy. I was never one to stay up after nine o'clock for the sake of entertainment. If there's sickness, or anythin' like that, of course it's a different matter. "Roger's pa was always a great one for readin', and we've both inherited it from him. Roger sits with his books and I sit with my paper, and we both read, never sayin' a word to each other, till almost nine o'clock. We're what you might call a literary family. [Sidenote: "Jewel of a Girl"] "I'm just readin' a perfectly beautiful story called _Margaret Merriman, or the Maiden's Mad Marriage_. Margaret must have been worth lookin' at, for she had golden hair and eyes like sapphires and ruby lips and pearly teeth. I was readin' the description of her to Roger, and he said she seemed to be what some people would call 'a jewel of a girl.' "Margaret Merriman's mother died when she was an infant in arms, just like your ma, Barbara, and left her to her pa. Her pa didn't marry again, though several was settin' their caps for him on account of him bein' young and handsome and havin' a lot of money. I suppose bein' a widower had somethin' to do with it, too. It does beat all how women will run after a widower. I suppose they want a man who's already been trained, but, speakin' for myself, I've always felt as if I'd rather have somethin' fresh and do my own trainin'--women's notions differ so about husbands. [Sidenote: Training Husbands] "Just think what it would be to marry a man, thinkin' he was all trained, and to find out that it had been done wrong. You'd have to begin all over again, and it'd be harder than startin' in with absolute ignorance. The man would get restless, too. When he thought he was graduated and was about ready to begin on a post-graduate course, he'd find himself in the kindergarten, studyin' with beads and singin' about little raindrops. "Gettin' an idea into a man's head is like furnishin' a room. If you can once get a piece of furniture where you want it, it can stay there until it's worn out or busted, except for occasional dustin' and repairin'. You can add from time to time as you have to, but if you attempt to refurnish a room that's all furnished, and do it all at once, you're bound to make more disturbance than housecleanin'. "It has to be done slow and careful, unless you have a likin' for rows, and if you're one of those kind of women that's forever changin' their minds about furniture and their husband's ideas, you're bound to have a terrible restless marriage. "Roger's pa was fresh when I took him, but, unbeknownst to me, he'd done his own furnishin', and the pieces was dreadful set and hard to move. Some of 'em I slid out gently and others took some manouverin', but steady work tells on anythin'. He was thinkin' as I wanted him to about most things, though, when he died, and that's sayin' a good deal, for he didn't die until after we'd been married seven years and three months and eighteen days. If he wasn't really thinkin' right, he was pretendin' to, and that's enough to satisfy any reasonable woman. [Sidenote: The Will] "Margaret Merriman's pa died when she was at the tender age of ten, and he left all his money to a distant relation in trust for Margaret, the relative bein' supposed to spend the income on her. If Margaret died before she was of age, the relative was to keep it, and if she should marry before she was of age, the relative was to keep it, too. But, livin' to eighteen' and marryin' afterwards, it was all to be Margaret's, and the relative wasn't to have as much as a two-cent stamp with the mucilage licked off. "This relative was a sweet-faced lady with a large mole on her right cheek. Margaret used to call her 'Moley,' when she was mad at her, which was right frequent. Her name was Magdalene Mather and she'd been married three times. She was dreadful careless with her husbands and had mislaid 'em all. Not bein' able to find 'em again, she just reckoned on their bein' dead and was thinkin' of marryin' some more. [Sidenote: Keeping Margaret Young] "Seems to me it's a mistake for anybody to marry more'n once. In one of Roger's books it says somethin' about a second marriage bein' the triumph of hope over experience. Magdalene Mather was dreadful hopeful and kept thinkin' that maybe she could get somebody who would stay with her without bein' chained up. Meanwhile it was to her interest to keep little Margaret as young as possible. "Margaret thought she was ten when she went to live with Magdalene, but she soon learned that it was a mistake and she got to be only seven in less'n half an hour. Magdalene put shorter dresses on her and kept her in white and gave her shoes without any heels, and these little short socks that show a foot or so of bare leg and which is indecent, if fashionable. "Margaret's birthdays kept gettin' farther and farther apart, and as soon as the neighbours begun to notice that Margaret wasn't agin' like everybody else, why, Magdalene would just pack up and go to a new place. "She didn't go to school, but had private teachers, because it was in the will that she was to be educated like a real lady. Any teacher who thought Margaret was too far advanced for her age got fired the minute it was spoke of, and pretty soon Margaret got onto it herself. She used to tell teachers she liked to say that she was very backward in her studies, and tell those she didn't like that Aunty Magdalene would be dreadful pleased to hear that she was improvin' in her readin' and 'rithmetic and grammar. "Meanwhile Nature was workin' in Margaret's interest and she was growin' taller and taller every day. The short socks had to be took off because people laughed so, and Magdalene had to let her braid her hair instead of havin' it cut Dutch and tied with a ribbon. When she was eighteen, she thought she was thirteen, and she was wearin' dresses that come to her shoe tops, and her hair in one braid down her back, and dreadful young hats and no jewels, though her pa had left her a small trunk full of rubies and diamonds and pearls. Magdalene was wearin' the jewels herself. They were movin' around pretty rapid about this time, and goin' from city to city in order to find better teachers for 'the dear child' as Magdalene used to call her. [Sidenote: The Conductor] "One day, soon after they'd gone to a new city, Margaret was goin' down town to take her music lesson. She went alone because Magdalene was laid up with a headache and wanted the house quiet. When the conductor come along for the fare, Margaret was lookin' out of the window, and, absent-minded like, she give him a penny instead of a nickel. "The conductor give it back to her, and asked her if she was so young she could go for half fare, and Margaret says, right sharp, when she give him the nickel, 'It's not so long since I was travellin' on half-fare.' "The conductor says: 'I'd hate to have been hangin' up by the thumbs since you was,' says he. Of course this made Margaret good and mad, and she says to the conductor, 'How old do you think I am?' "The conductor says: 'I ain't paid to think durin' union hours, but I imagine that you ain't old enough to lie about your age.' [Sidenote: Ronald Macdonald] "Just then an old woman with a green parrot in a big cage fell off the car while she was gettin' off backwards as usual, and Margaret didn't have no more chance to fight with the conductor. She saw, however, that he was terrible good lookin'--like the dummy in the tailor's window. It says in the story that 'Ronald Macdonald'--that was his name--was as handsome as a young Greek god and, though lowly in station, he would have adorned a title had it been his.' "Margaret got to doin' some thinkin' about herself, and wonderin' why it was she didn't seem to age none. And whenever she happened to get onto Ronald Macdonald's car, she noticed that he was awful polite and chivalrous to women. He waited patiently when any two of 'em was decidin' who was to pay the fare and findin' their purses, and sayin', 'You must let me pay next time,' and he would tickle a cryin' baby under the chin and make it bill and coo like a bird. "Did you ever see a baby bill? I never did neither, but that's what it said in the paper. I suppose it has some reference to the expense of their comin' and their keep through the whoopin' cough stage and the measles, and so on. There don't neither of you know nothin' about it 'cause you ain't married, but when Roger come, his pa was obliged to mortgage the house, and the mortgage didn't get took off until Roger was out of dresses and goin' to school and beginnin' to write with ink. [Sidenote: Fine Manners] "Let me see--what was I talkin' about? Oh, yes--Ronald Macdonald's fine manners. When a woman give him five pennies instead of a nickel, he was always just as polite to her as he was to anybody, and would help her off the car and carry her bundles to the corner for her, and everything like that. Of course Margaret couldn't help noticin' this and likin' him for it though she was still mad at him for what he said about her age. "One morning Margaret give him a quarter so's he'd have to make change, and while he was doin' it, she says to him, 'How nice it must be to ride all day without payin' for it.' "'I'm under age,' says Ronald Macdonald, with a smile that showed all his beautiful teeth and his ruby lips under his black waxed mustache. "'Get out,' says Margaret, surprised. "'I am, though,' says Ronald, confidentially. 'I'm just nineteen. How old are you?' "'Thirteen,' says Margaret, softly. "'Don't renig,' says Ronald. 'I think we're pretty near of an age.' "When Margaret got home, she looked up 'renig' in the dictionary, but it wasn't there. She was too smart to ask Magdalene, but she kept on thinkin'. [Sidenote: Chance Acquaintances] "One day, while she was goin' down in the car, two men came in and sat by her. They was chance acquaintances, it seemed, havin' just met at the hotel. 'Your face is terrible familiar to me,' one of the men said. 'I've seen you before, or your picture, or something, somewhere. Upon my soul, I believe your picture is hung up in my last wife's boudoir.' "'Good God,' says the other man, turnin' as pale as death, 'did you marry Magdalene Mather, too?' "'I did,' says the first man. "'Then, brother,' says the second man, 'let us get off at the next corner and go and drown our mutual sorrow in drink.' "After they got off, Margaret went out to Ronald, and she says to him: 'There goes two of my aunt's husbands. She's had three, and there's two of 'em, right there.' "'Well,' says Ronald, 'if Aunty ain't got a death certificate and two or three divorces put away somewhere, she stands right in line to get canned for a few years for bigamy. You don't look like you had an aunt that was a trigamist,' says he. "Margaret didn't understand much of this, but she still kept thinkin'. One day while Magdalene was at an afternoon reception, wearin' all of Margaret's jewels, Margaret looked all through her private belongings to see if she could find any divorces, and she come on a family Bible with the date of her birth in it, and her father's will. [Sidenote: Facts of the Case] "Soon, she understands the whole game, and by doin' a small sum in subtraction, she sees that she is goin' on nineteen now. She's afraid to leave the proofs in the house over night, so she wraps 'em up in a newspaper, and flies with 'em to her only friend Ronald Macdonald, and asks him to keep 'em for her until she comes after 'em. He says he will guard them with his life. "When Margaret goes back after them, havin' decided to face her aunt and demand her inheritance, Ronald has already read 'em, but of course he don't let on that he has. He convinces her that she ought to get married before she faces her aunt, so that a husband's strong arm will be at hand to defend her through the terrible ordeal. "Margaret thinks she sees a way out, for she has been studyin' up on law in the meantime, and she remembers how Ronald has told her he is under age, and she knows the marriage won't be legal, but will serve to deceive her aunt. [Sidenote: The Climax] "So she flies with him and they are married, and then when they confront Magdalene with the will, and the family Bible and their marriage certificate, and tell her she is a trigamist, and they will make trouble for her if she don't do right by 'em, Magdalene sobs out, 'Oh, Heaven, I am lost!' and falls in a dead faint from which she don't come out for six weeks. "In the meantime, Margaret has thanked Ronald Macdonald for his great kindness, and says he can go now, as the marriage ain't legal, he bein' under age and not havin' his parents' consent. Ronald gives a long, loud laugh and then he digs up his family Bible and shows Margaret how he is almost twenty-five and old enough to be married, and that women have no patent on lyin' about their ages, and that he is not going away. "Margaret swoons, and when she comes to, she finds that Ronald has resigned his job as a street-car conductor, and has bought some fine clothes on her credit, and is prepared to live happy ever afterward. He bids eternal farewell to work in a long and impassioned speech that's so full of fine language that it would do credit to a minister, and there Margaret is, in a trap of her own makin', with a husband to take care of her money instead of an aunt. Next week, I'll know more about how it turns out, but that's as far as I've got now. Ain't it a perfectly beautiful story?" Miriam muttered some sort of answer, but Barbara smiled. "It is very interesting," she said, kindly. "I've never read anything like it." [Sidenote: Going the Rounds] "It's a lot better'n the books you and Roger waste your time over," returned the guest, much gratified; "but I can't lend you the papers, cause there's five waitin' after the postmaster's wife, and goodness knows how many of them has promised others. I don't mind runnin' over once in a while, though, and tellin' you about 'em while I sew. "It keeps 'em fresh in my memory," she added, happily, "and Roger is so busy with his law books he don't have time to listen to 'em except at supper. He reads law every evening now, and he didn't used to. Guess he ain't wasting so much time as he was. Been down to the hotel yet?" she asked, inclining her head toward Miriam. "Once," answered Miriam, reluctantly. [Sidenote: Gossip] "There ain't many come yet," the postmaster's wife tells me. "There's a young lady at the hotel named Miss Eloise Wynne, and every day but Saturday she gets a letter from the city, addressed in a man's writin'. And every afternoon, when the boy brings the hotel mail down to go out on the night train, there's a big white square envelope in a woman's writin' addressed to Doctor Allan Conrad, some place in the city. The envelope smells sweet, but the writin' is dreadful big and sploshy-lookin'. Know anything about her?" Miss Mattie gazed sharply at Miriam over her spectacles. "No," returned Miriam, decisively. "Thought maybe you would. Anyhow, you don't need to be so sharp about it, cause there's no harm in askin' a civil question. My mother always taught me that a civil question called for a civil answer. I should think, from the letters and all, that he was her steady company, shouldn't you?" "It's possible," assented Barbara, seeing that Miriam did not intend to reply. "There's some talk at the sewin' circle of gettin' you one of them hand sewin' machines," continued Miss Mattie, "so's you could sew more and better." Barbara flushed painfully. "Thank you," she answered, "but I couldn't use it. I much prefer to do all my work by hand." "All right," assented Miss Mattie, good-humouredly. "It ain't our idea to force a sewin' machine onto anybody that don't want it. We can use some of the money in gettin' a door-mat for the front door of the church. And, if I was you, I wouldn't let my pa run around so much by himself. If he wants to borrow a dog to go with him, Roger would be willin' to lend him Judge Bascom's Fido. If the Judge wasn't willin', Roger would try to persuade him. Lendin' Fido would make law easier for Roger and be a great help to your pa. "I must go, now, and get supper. Good-bye. I've enjoyed my visit ever so much. Come over sometime, Miriam--you ain't very sociable. Good-bye." The two women watched Miss Mattie scudding blithely over the trail which, as she said, Roger had worn in the grass. Miriam looked after her gloomily, but Barbara was laughing. "Don't look so cross, Aunty," chided Barbara. "No one ever came here who was so easy to entertain." "Humph," grunted Miriam, and went out. [Sidenote: Relief] But even Barbara sighed in relief when she was left alone. She understood some of Roger's difficulties of which he never spoke, and realised that the much-maligned "Bascom liver" could not be held responsible for all his discontent. She wondered what Roger's father had been like, and did not wonder that he was unhappy, if his nature was in any way akin to his son's. But her mother? How could she have failed to appreciate the beautiful old father whom Barbara loved with all the passion and strength of her young heart! [Sidenote: The Secret] "He mustn't know," said Barbara to herself, for the hundredth time. "Father must never know." VIII A Fairy Godmother [Sidenote: The Postponed Visit] As cool and fresh as the June morning of which she seemed a veritable part, Miss Eloise Wynne, immaculately clad in white linen, opened the little grey gate. It was a week later than she had promised to come, but she had not been idle, and considered herself justified for the delay. Miriam opened the door for her and introduced Barbara. Eloise smiled radiantly as she offered a smooth, well-kept hand. "I know I'm late," she said, "but I think you'll forgive me for it a little later on. I want to see all the lingerie--every piece you have to sell." "Would you mind coming upstairs?" asked Barbara. "No, indeed." The two went up, Barbara slowly leading the way. Miriam remained downstairs to make sure that the blind man did not come in unexpectedly and overhear things which he would be much happier not to know. "What a lot of it," Eloise was saying. "And what a wonderful old chest." [Sidenote: Dainty Wares] Trembling with excitement, Barbara spread forth her dainty wares. Eloise was watching her narrowly, and, with womanly intuition, saw the dire need and the courageous spirit struggling against it. "Just a minute, please," said Barbara; "I'd better tell you now. My father is blind and he does not know we are poor, nor that I make these things to sell. He thinks that they are for myself and that I am very vain. So, if he should come home while you are here, please do not spoil our little deceit." Barbara lifted her luminous blue eyes to Eloise and smiled. It was a brave little smile without a hint of self-pity, and it went straight to the older woman's heart. "I'll be careful," said Eloise. "I think it's dear of you." "Now," said Barbara, stooping to peer into the corners of the deep chest, "I think that's all." She began, hurriedly, to price everything as she passed it to Eloise, giving the highest price each time. When she had finished, she was amazed at Miss Wynne's face--it was so full of resentment. "Do you mean to tell me," asked Eloise, in a queer voice, "that you are asking _that_ for _these_?" The blue eyes threatened to overflow, but Barbara straightened herself proudly. "It is all hand work," she said, with quiet dignity, "and the material is the very best. I could not possibly afford to sell it for less." "You goose," laughed Eloise, "you have misunderstood me. There is not a thing here that is not worth at least a third more than you are asking for it. Give me a pencil and paper and some pins." [Sidenote: Higher Prices] Barbara obeyed, wondering what this beautiful visitor would do next. Eloise took up every garment and examined it critically. Then she made a new price tag and pinned it over the old one. She advanced even the plainest garments at least a third, the more elaborate ones were doubled, and some of the embroidered things were even tripled in price. When she came to the shirtwaist patterns, exquisitely embroidered upon sheerest handkerchief linen, she shamelessly multiplied the price by four and pinned the new tag on. "Oh," gasped Barbara; "nobody will ever pay that much for things to wear." "Somebody is going to right now," announced Eloise, with decision. "I'll take this, and this, and this," she went on, rapidly choosing, "and these, and these, and this. I'll take those four for a friend of mine who is going to be married next week--this solves the eternal problem of wedding-presents--and all of these for next Santa Claus time. "I can use all the handkerchiefs, and every pin-cushion cover and corsage-pad you've made. Please don't sell anything else until I've heard from some more of my friends to whom I have already written. And you're not to offer one of these exquisite things to those unappreciative people at the hotel, for I have a letter from a friend who is on the Board of Directors of the Woman's Exchange, and got a chance for you to sell there. How long have you been doing this?" [Sidenote: In a Whirl of Confusion] "Seven or eight years," murmured Barbara. Her senses were so confused that the room seemed to be whirling and her face was almost as white as the lingerie. "And those women at the hotel would really buy these things at such ridiculous prices?" "Not often," answered Barbara, trying to smile. "They would not pay so much. Sometimes we had to sell for very little more than the cost of the material. One woman said we ought not to expect so much for things that were not made with a sewing-machine, but of course, Aunt Miriam had been to the city and she knew that hand work was worth more." "I wish I'd been there," remarked Eloise. There was a look around her mouth which would have boded no good to anybody if she had. "When I see what brutes women can be, sometimes I am ashamed because I am a woman." "And," returned Barbara, softly, "when I see what good angels women can be, it makes me proud to be a woman." "Where do you get your material?" asked Eloise, quickly. Barbara named the large department store where Aunt Miriam bought linen, lawn, batiste, lace, patterns, and incidentally managed to absorb ideas. "I see I'm needed in Riverdale-by-the-Sea," observed Miss Wynne. "I can arrange for you to buy all you want at the lowest wholesale price." "Would it save anything?" asked Barbara, doubtfully. [Sidenote: Practical Help] "Would it?" repeated Eloise, smiling. "Just wait and see. After I've written about that and had some samples sent to you, we'll talk over half a dozen or more complete sets of lingerie for me, and some more shirtwaists. Is there a pen downstairs? I want to write a check for you." When they went into the living-room, Barbara's cheeks were burning with excitement and her eyes shone like stars. When she took the check, which Eloise wrote with an accustomed air, she could scarcely speak, but managed to stammer out, "Thank you." "You needn't," said Eloise, coolly, "for I'm only buying what I want at a price I consider very reasonable and fair. If you'll get some samples of your work ready, I'll send up for them, and hurry them on to my friend who is to put them into the Woman's Exchange. And please don't sell anything more just now. I've just thought of a friend whose daughter is going to be married soon, and she may want me to select some things for her." "You're a fairy godmother," said Barbara. "This morning we were poor and discouraged. You came in and waved your wand, and now we are rich. I have heart for anything now." [Sidenote: Always Rich] "You are always rich while you have courage, and without it Croesus himself would be poor. It's not the circumstance, remember--it's the way you meet it." "I know," said Barbara, but her eyes filled with tears of gratitude, nevertheless. Ambrose North came in from the street, and immediately felt the presence of a stranger in the room. "Who is here?" he asked. "This is Miss Wynne, Father. She is stopping at the hotel and came up to call." The old man bowed in courtly fashion over the young woman's hand. "We are glad to see you," he said, gently. "I am blind, but I can see with my soul." "That is the true sight," returned Eloise. Her big brown eyes were soft with pity. "Have many of the guests come?" he inquired. "I have a friend," laughed Eloise, "who says it is wrong to call people 'guests' when they are stopping at a hotel. He insists that 'inmates' is a much better word." "He is not far from right," said the old man, smiling. "Is he there now?" "No, he comes down Saturday mornings and stays until Monday morning. That is all the vacation he allows himself. You are fortunate to live here," she added, kindly. "I do not know of a more beautiful place." [Sidenote: Invited to Luncheon] "Nor I. To us--to me, especially--it is hallowed by memories. We--you will stay to luncheon, will you not, Miss Wynne?" Eloise glanced quickly at Barbara. "If you only would," she said. "If you really want me," said Eloise, "I'd love to." She took off her hat--a white one trimmed with lilacs--and smoothed the waves in her copper-coloured hair. Barbara took her crutches and went out, very quietly, to help Aunt Miriam prepare for the guest. When the kitchen door was safely closed, Barbara's joy bubbled into speech. "Oh, Aunt Miriam," she cried; "she's bought nearly every thing I had and paid almost double price for it. She's already arranged for me to sell at the Woman's Exchange in the city, and she is going to write to some of her friends about the things I have left. She's going to arrange for me to get all my material at the lowest wholesale price, and she's ordered six complete sets of lingerie for herself. She wants some more shirtwaists, too. Oh, Aunt Miriam, do you think the world is coming to an end?" "Has she paid you?" queried Miriam, gravely. "Indeed she has." "Then it probably is." Miriam was not a woman easily to be affected by joy, but the hard lines of her face softened perceptibly. "Show her the quilts," she suggested. "Oh, Aunt Miriam, I'd be ashamed to, to-day, when she's bought so much. She'll be coming up again before long--she said so. And father's asked her to luncheon." "Just like him," commented Miriam, with a sigh. "He always suffered from hospitality. I'll have to go to the store." [Sidenote: The Best We Have] "No, you won't, Aunty--she's not that sort. We'll give her the best we have, with a welcome thrown in." If Eloise thought it strange for one end of the table to be set with solid silver, heavy damask, and fine china, while the other end, where she and the two women of the house sat, was painfully different, she gave no sign of it in look or speech. The humble fare might have been the finest banquet so far as she was concerned. She fitted herself to their ways without apparent effort; there was no awkwardness nor feeling of strangeness. She might have been a life-long friend of the family, instead of a passing acquaintance who had come to buy lingerie. [Sidenote: Friendly Conversation] As she ate, she talked. It was not aimless chatter, but the rare gift of conversation. She drew them all out and made them talk, too. Even Miriam relaxed and said something more than "yes" and "no." "What delicious preserves," said Eloise. "May I have some more, please? Where do you get them?" "I make them," answered Miriam, the dull red rising in her cheeks. She had not been entirely disinterested when she climbed up on a chair and took down some of her choicest fruit from the highest shelf of the store-room. "Do you--" A look from Barbara stopped the unlucky speech. "Do you find it difficult?" asked Eloise, instantly mistress of the situation. "I should so love to make some for myself." "Miriam will be glad to teach you," put in Ambrose North. "She likes to do it because she can do it so well." The red grew deeper in Miriam's lined face, for every word of praise from him was food to her hungry soul. She would gladly have laid down her life for him, even though she hated herself for feeling as she did. [Sidenote: An Hour of Song] Afterward, while Miriam was clearing off the table, Eloise went to the piano without being asked, and sang to them for more than an hour. She chose folk-songs and tender melodies--little songs made of tears and laughter, and the simple ballads that never grow old. She had a deep, vibrant contralto voice of splendid range and volume; she sang with rare sympathy, and every word could be clearly understood. "Don't stop," pleaded Barbara, when she paused and ran her fingers lightly over the keys. "I don't want to impose upon your good-nature," she returned, "but I love to sing." "And we love to have you," said North. "I think, Barbara, we must get a new piano." "I wouldn't," answered Eloise, before Barbara could speak. "The years improve wine and violins and friendship, so why not a piano?" Without waiting for his reply, she began to sing, with exquisite tenderness: "Sometimes between long shadows on the grass The little truant waves of sunlight pass; Mine eyes grow dim with tenderness the while, Thinking I see thee, thinking I see thee smile. "And sometimes in the twilight gloom apart The tall trees whisper, whisper heart to heart; From my fond lips the eager answers fall, Thinking I hear thee, thinking I hear thee call." "Yes," said Ambrose North, unsteadily, as the last chord died away, "I know. You can call and call, but nothing ever comes back to you." The tears streamed over his blind face as he rose and went out of the room. "What have I done?" asked Eloise. "Oh, what have I done?" "Nothing," sighed Barbara. "My mother has been dead for twenty-one years, but my father never forgets. She was only a girl when she died--like me." "I'm so sorry. Why didn't you tell me before, so I could have chosen jolly, happy things?" "That wouldn't keep him from grieving--nothing can, so don't be troubled about it." Eloise turned back to the piano and sang two or three rollicking, laughing melodies that set Barbara's one foot to tapping on the floor, but the old man did not come back. "I never meant to stay so long," said Eloise, rising and putting on her hat. "It isn't long," returned Barbara, with evident sincerity. "I wish you wouldn't go." "But I must, my dear. If I don't go, I can never come again. I have lots of letters to write, and mail will be waiting for me, and I have some studying to do, so I must go." [Sidenote: Adieus] Barbara went to the door with her. "Good-bye, Fairy Godmother," she said, wistfully. "Good-bye, Fairy Godchild," answered Eloise, carelessly. Then something in the girl's face impelled her to put a strong arm around Barbara, and kiss her, very tenderly. The blue eyes filled with tears. "Thank you for that," breathed Barbara, "more than for anything else." * * * * * Eloise went away humming to herself, but she stopped as soon as she was out of sight of the house. "The little thing," she thought; "the dear, brave little thing! A face like an angel, and that cross old woman, and that beautiful old man who sees with his soul. And all that exquisite work and the prices those brutal women paid her for it. Blind and lame, and nothing to be done." Then another thought made her brown eyes very bright. "But I'm not so sure of that--we'll see." [Sidenote: A Request] She wrote many letters that afternoon, and all were for Barbara. The last and longest was to Doctor Conrad, begging him to come at the first possible moment and go with her to see a poor broken child who might be made well and strong and beautiful. "And," the letter went on, "perhaps you could give her father back his eyesight. She calls me her Fairy Godmother, and I rely upon you to keep my proud position for me. Any way, Allan, dear, please come, won't you?" [Sidenote: Awaiting Results] She closed it with a few words which would have made him start for the Klondike that night, had there been a train, and she asked it of him; posted it, and hopefully awaited results. IX Taking the Chance [Sidenote: Dr. Conrad Comes] "Well, I'm here," remarked Doctor Conrad, as he sat on the beach with Eloise. "I have left all my patients in the care of an inferior, though reputable physician, who has such winning ways that he may have annexed my entire practice by the time I get back. "If you'll tell me just where these protégées of yours are, I'll go up there right away. I'll ring the bell, and when they open the door I'll say: 'I've come from Miss Wynne, and I'm to amputate this morning and remove a couple of cataracts this afternoon. Kindly have the patients get ready at once.'" "Don't joke, Allan," pleaded Eloise. Her brown eyes were misty and her mood of exalted tenderness made her in love with all the world. "If you could see that brave little thing, with her beautiful face and her divine unselfishness, hobbling around on crutches and sewing for a living, meanwhile keeping her blind old father from knowing they are poor, you'd feel just as I do." [Sidenote: Discussing the Case] "It is very improbable," returned Allan, seriously, "that anything can be done. If they were well-to-do, they undoubtedly made every effort and saw everybody worth seeing." "But in twenty years," suggested Eloise, hopefully. "Think of all the progress that has been made in twenty years." "I know," said Allan, doubtfully. "All we can do is to see. And if anything can be done for them, why, of course we'll do it." "Then we'll go for a little drive," she said, "and on our way back, we can stop there and get the things I bought the other day. They have no one to send with them, and it's too much for one person to carry, anyway." "I suppose she has sold everything she had," mused Allan impersonally. "Not quite," answered Eloise, flushing. "I left her some samples for the Woman's Exchange." "Very kind," he observed, with the same air of detachment. "I can see my finish. My wife will have so much charity work for me to do that there will be no time for anything else, and, in a little while, she will have given away all the money we both have. Then when we're sitting together in the sun on the front steps of the poorhouse, we can fittingly lament the end of our usefulness." [Sidenote: Policy of Segregation] "They won't let us sit together," she retorted. "Don't you know that even in the old people's homes they keep the men and women apart--husbands and wives included?" "For the love of Mike, what for?" he asked, in surprise. "Because it makes the place too gay and frivolous. Old ladies of eighty were courted by awkward swains of ninety and more, and there was so much checker-playing in the evening and so many lights burning, and so many requests for new clothes, that the management couldn't stand it. There were heart-burnings and jealousies, too, so they had to adopt a policy of segregation." "'Hope springs eternal in the human breast,'" quoted Allan. "And love," she said. "I've thought sometimes I'd like to play fairy godmother to some of those poor, desolate old people who love each other, and give them a pretty wedding. Wouldn't it be dear to see two old people married and settled in a little home of their own?" "Or, more likely, with us," he returned. "I've been thinking about a nice little house with a guest room or two, but I've changed my mind. My vote is for a very small apartment. You're not the sort to be trusted with a guest room." [Sidenote: Starting Off] Eloise laughed and sprang to her feet. "On to the errand of mercy," she said. "We're wasting valuable time. Get a horse and buggy and I'll see if I can borrow an extra suit-case or two for my purchases." When she came down, Allan was waiting for her in the buggy. A bell-boy, in her wake, brought three suit-cases and piled them under the seat. Half a dozen rocking-chairs, on the veranda, held highly interested observers. The paraphernalia suggested an elopement. "Tell those women on the veranda," said Eloise, to the boy, "that I'm not taking any trunks and will soon be back." "What for?" queried Allan, as they drove away. "Reasons of my own," she answered, crisply. "Men are as blind as bats." "I'm wearing glasses," he returned, with due humility. "If you think I'm fit to hear why you left that cryptic message, I'd be pleased to." "You're far from fit. Here, turn into this road." Spread like a tawny ribbon upon the green of the hills, the road wound lazily through open sunny spaces and shaded aisles sweet with that cool fragrance found only in the woods. The horse did not hurry, but wandered comfortably from side to side of the road, browsing where he chose. He seemed to know that lovers were driving him. [Sidenote: Horses versus Autos] "He's a one-armed horse, isn't he?" laughed Eloise. "I like him lots better than an automobile, don't you?" "Out here, I do. But an automobile has certain advantages." "What are they?" she demanded. "I'd rather feed a horse than to buy a tire, any day." "So would I--unless he tired of his feed. But if you want to get anywhere very quickly and the thing happens not to break, the machine is better." "But it never happens. I believe the average automobile is possessed of an intuition little short of devilish. A horse seems more friendly. If you were thinking of getting me a little electric runabout for my birthday, please change it to a horse." "All right," returned Allan, serenely. "We can keep him in the living-room of our six-room apartment and have his dinner sent in from the nearest _table d'oat_. For breakfast, he can come out into the _salle à manger_ and eat cereals with us." "You're absolutely incorrigible," she sighed. "This is the river road. Follow it until I tell you where to turn." Within half an hour, the horse came to a full stop of his own accord in front of the grey, weather-worn house where Barbara lived. He was cropping at a particularly enticing clump of grass when Eloise alighted. "Going to push?" queried Allan, lazily. "No, this is the place. Come on. You bring two of the suit-cases and I'll take the other." [Sidenote: Observations] The blind man was not there at the moment, but came in while Miriam was upstairs packing Miss Wynne's recent additions to her wardrobe. Doctor Conrad had been observing Barbara keenly as they talked of indifferent things. Outwardly, he was calm and professional, but within, a warmly human impulse answered her evident need. He was young and had not yet been at his work long enough to determine his ultimate nature. Later on, his profession would do to him one of two things. It would transform him into a mere machine, brutalised and calloused, with only one or two emotions aside from selfishness left to thrive in his dwarfed soul, or it would humanise him to godlike unselfishness, attune him to a divine sympathy, and mellow his heart in tenderness beyond words. In one instance he would be feared; in the other, only loved, by those who came to him. As Barbara went across the room to another chair, his eyes followed her with intense interest. Eloise shrank from him a little--she had never seen him like this before. Yet she knew, from the expression of his face, that he had found hope, and was glad. "Barbara?" It was Miriam, calling from upstairs. "In just a minute, Aunty. Excuse me, please--I'll come right back." She was scarcely out of the room before Eloise leaned over to Allan, her face alight with eager questioning. "You think--?" [Sidenote: Willing to Try] "I don't know," he returned, in a low tone. "It depends on the hardness of the muscles and several other local conditions. Of course it's impossible to tell definitely without a thorough examination, but I've done it successfully in two adult cases, and have seen it done more than a dozen times. I'd be very willing to try." "Oh, Allan," whispered Eloise. "I'm so glad." Barbara's padded crutches sounded softly on the stairs as she came down. Eloise went to the window and studied the horse attentively, though he was not of the restless sort that needs to be tied. While she was watching, Ambrose North came around the base of the hill, crossed the road, and opened the gate. He had been to his old solitude at the top of the hill, where, as nowhere else, he found peace. While he was talking with the visitors, Miriam went out, taking the neatly-packed suit-cases, one at a time, and put them into the buggy. "Mr. North," said Doctor Conrad, "while these girls are chattering, will you go for a little drive with me?" The blind man's fine old face illumined with pleasure. "I should like it very much," he said. "It is a long time since I had have a drive." "It's more like a walk," laughed Allan, as they went out, "with this horse." "We sold our horses many years ago," the old man explained, as he climbed in. "Miriam is afraid of horses and Barbara said she did not care to go. I thought the open air and the slight exercise would be good for her, but she insisted upon my selling them." [Sidenote: About Barbara] "It is about Barbara that I wished to speak," said Allan. "With your consent, I should like to make a thorough examination and see whether an operation would not do away with her crutches entirely." "It is no use," sighed North, wearily. "We went everywhere and did everything, long ago. There is nothing that can be done." "But there may be," insisted Allan. "We have learned much, in my profession, in the last twenty years. May I try?" "You're asking me if you can hurt my baby?" "Not to hurt her more than is necessary to heal. Understand me, I do not know but what you are right, but I hope, and believe, that there may be a chance." "I have dreamed sometimes," said the old man, very slowly, "that my baby could walk and I could see." [Sidenote: If Possible] "The dream shall come true, if it is possible. Let me see your eyes." He stopped the horse on the brow of the hill, where the sun shone clear and strong, stood up, and turned the blind face to the light. Then, sitting down once more, he asked innumerable questions. When he finally was silent, Ambrose North turned to him, indifferently. "Well?" The tone was simply polite inquiry. The matter seemed to be one which concerned nobody. "Again I do not know," returned Allan. "This is altogether out of my line, but, if you'll go to the city with me, I'll take you to a friend of mine who is a great specialist. If anything can be done, he is the man who can do it. Will you come?" There was a long pause. "If Barbara is willing," he answered simply. "Ask her." * * * * * [Sidenote: The Plunge] Meanwhile, Eloise was talking to Barbara. First, she told her of the letters she had written in her behalf and to which the answers might come any day now. Then she asked if she might order preserves from Aunt Miriam, and discussed patterns and material for the lingerie she had previously spoken of. Finding, at length, that the best way to approach a difficult subject was the straightest one, she took the plunge. "Have you always been lame?" she asked. She did not look at Barbara, but tried to speak carelessly, as she gazed out of the window. "Yes," came the answer, so low that she could scarcely hear it. "Wouldn't you like to walk like the rest of us?" continued Eloise. Barbara writhed under the torturing question. "My mind can walk," she said, with difficulty; "my soul isn't lame." The tone made Eloise turn quickly--and hate herself bitterly for her awkwardness. She saw that an apology would only make a bad matter worse, so she went straight on. "Doctor Conrad is very skilful," she continued. "In the city, he is one of the few really great surgeons. He told me that he would like to make an examination and see if an operation would not do away with the crutches. He thinks there may be a good chance. If there is, will you take it?" "Thank you," said Barbara, almost inaudibly. Her voice had sunk to a whisper and she was very pale. "I do not mean to seem ungrateful, but it is impossible." "Impossible!" repeated Eloise. "Why?" "Because of father," explained Barbara. Her colour was coming back slowly now. "I am all he has, my work supplies his needs, and I dare not take the risk." "Is that the only reason?" Barbara nodded. "You're not afraid?" Barbara's blue eyes opened wide with astonishment. "Why should I be afraid?" she asked. "Do you take me for a coward?" Eloise knelt beside Barbara's low chair and put her strong arms around the slender, white-clad figure. "Listen, dear," she said. Her face was shining as though with some great inner light. "My own dear father died when I was a child. My mother died when I was born. I have never had anything but money. I have never had anyone to take care of, no one to make sacrifices for, no one to make me strong because I was needed. If the worst should happen, would you trust your father to me? Could you trust me?" "Yes," said Barbara slowly; "I could." [Sidenote: A Compact] "Then I promise you solemnly that your father shall never want for anything while he lives. And now, if there is a chance, will you take it--for me?" Barbara looked long into the sweet face, glorified by the inner light. Then she leaned forward and put her soft arms around the older woman, hiding her face in the masses of copper-coloured hair. "For you? A thousand times, yes," she sobbed. "Oh, anything for you!" * * * * * Late in the afternoon, when Ambrose North and Barbara were alone again, he came over to her chair and stroked her shining hair with a loving hand. "Did they tell you, dear?" he asked. "Yes," whispered Barbara. "I have dreamed so often that my baby could walk and I could see. He said that the dream should come true if he could make it so." "Did he say anything about your eyes?" asked Barbara, in astonishment. [Sidenote: Hopeful] "Yes. He thinks there may be a chance there, too. If you are willing, I am to go to the city with him sometime and see a friend of his who is a great specialist." "Oh, Daddy," cried Barbara. "I'm afraid--for you." He drew a chair up near hers and sat down. The old hand, in which the pulses moved so slowly, clasped the younger one, warm with life. "Barbara," he said; "I have never seen my baby." "I know, Daddy." "I want to see you, dear." "And I want you to." "Then, will you let me go?" "Perhaps, but it must be--afterward, you know." "Why?" "Because, when you see me, I want to be strong and well. I want to be able to walk. You mustn't see the crutches, Daddy--they are ugly things." "Nothing could be ugly that belongs to you. I made a little song this afternoon, while you and Miriam were talking and I was out alone." "Tell me." [Sidenote: In a Beautiful Garden] "Once there was a man who had a garden. When he was a child he had played in it, in his youth and early manhood he had worked in it and found pleasure in seeing things grow, but he did not really know what a beautiful garden it was until another walked in it with him and found it fair. "Together they watched it from Springtime to harvest, finding new beauty in it every day. One night at twilight she whispered to him that some day a perfect flower of their very own was to bloom in the garden. They watched and waited and prayed for it together, but, before it blossomed, the man went blind. "In the darkness, he could not see the garden, but she was still there, bringing divine consolation with her touch, and whispering to him always of the perfect flower so soon to be their own. "When it blossomed, the man could not see it, but the one who walked beside him told him that it was as pure and fair as they had prayed it might be. They enjoyed it together for a year, and he saw it through her eyes. "Then she went to God's Garden, and he was left desolate and alone. He cared for nothing and for a time even forgot the flower that she had left. Weeds grew among the flowers, nettles and thistles took possession of the walks, and strange vines choked with their tendrils everything that dared to bloom. [Sidenote: A Perfect Flower] "One day, he went out into the intolerable loneliness and desolation, and, groping blindly, he found among the nettles and thistles and weeds the one perfect white blossom. It was cool and soft to his hot hand, it was exquisitely fragrant, and, more than all, it was part of her. Gradually, it eased his pain. He took out the weeds and thistles as best he could, but there was little he could do, for he had left it too long. "The years went by, but the flower did not fade. Seeking, he always found it; weary, it always refreshed him; starving, it fed his soul. Blind, it gave him sight; weak, it gave him courage; hurt, it brought him balm. At last he lived only because of it, for, in some mysterious way, it seemed to need him, too, and sometimes it even seemed divinely to restore the lost. "Flower of the Dusk," he said, leaning to Barbara; "what should I have been without you? How could I have borne it all?" [Sidenote: Strength for the Burden] "God suits the burden to the bearer, I think," she answered, softly. "If you have much to bear, it is because you are strong enough to do it nobly and well. Only the weak are allowed to shirk, and shift their load to the shoulders of the strong." "I know, but, Barbara--suppose----" "There is nothing to suppose, Daddy. Whatever happened would be the best that could happen. I'm not afraid." Her voice rang clear and strong. Insensibly, he caught some of her own fine courage and his soul rallied greatly to meet hers. From her height she had summoned him as with a bugle-call, and he had answered. "The ways of the Everlasting are not our ways," he said, "but I will not be afraid. No, I will not let myself be afraid." X In the Garden [Sidenote: A Summer Evening] The subtle, far-reaching fragrance of a Summer night came through the open window. A cool wind from the hills had set the maple branches to murmuring and hushed the incoming tide as it swept up to the waiting shore. Out in the illimitable darkness of the East, grey surges throbbed like the beating of a troubled heart, but the shore knew only the drowsy croon of a sea that has gone to sleep. Golden lilies swung their censers softly, and the exquisite incense perfumed the dusk. Fairy lamp-bearers starred the night with glimmering radiance, faintly seen afar. A cricket chirped just outside the window and a ghostly white moth circled around the evening lamp. Roger sat by the table, with Keats's letters to his beloved Fanny open before him. The letter to Constance, so strangely brought back after all the intervening years, lay beside the book. The ink was faded and the paper was yellow, but his father's love, for a woman not his mother, stared the son full in the face and was not to be denied. Was this all, or--? His thought refused to go further. Constance North had died, by her own hand, four days after the letter was written. What might not have happened in four days? In one day, Columbus found a world. In another, electricity was discovered. In one day, one hour, even, some immeasurable force moving according to unseen law might sway the sun and set all the stars to reeling madly through the unutterable midnights of the universe. And in four days? Ah, what had happened in those four days? [Sidenote: A Recurring Question] The question had haunted him since the night he read the letter, when he was reading to Barbara and had unwittingly come upon it. Constance was dead and Laurence Austin was dead, but their love lived on. The grave was closed against it, and in neither heaven nor hell could it find an abiding-place. Ghostly and forbidding, it had sent Constance to haunt Miriam's troubled sleep, it had filled Ambrose North's soul with cruel doubt and foreboding, and had now come back to Roger and Barbara, to ask eternal questions of the one, and stir the heart of the other to new depths of pain. He had not seen Barbara since that night and she had sent no message. No beacon light in the window across the way said "come." The sword that had lain, keen-edged and cruel, between Constance and her lover, had, by a single swift stroke, changed everything between her daughter and his son. Not that Barbara herself was less beautiful or less dear. Roger had missed her more than he realised. When her lovely, changing face had come between his eyes and the musty pages of his law books, while the disturbing Bascom pup cavorted merrily around the office, unheard and unheeded, Roger had ascribed it to the letter that had forced them apart. * * * * * The woollen slippers muffled Miss Mattie's step so that Roger did not hear her enter the room. Preoccupied and absorbed, he was staring vacantly out of the window, when a strong, capable hand swooped down beside him, gathering up the book and the letter. [Sidenote: Tremendous Power] "I don't know what it is about your readin', Roger," complained his mother, "that makes you blind and deaf and dumb and practically paralysed. Your pa was the same way. Reckon I'll read a piece myself and see what it is that's so affectin'. It ain't a very big book, but it seems to have tremendous power." She sat down and began to read aloud, in a curiously unsympathetic voice which grated abominably upon her unwilling listener: "'Ask yourself, my Love, whether you are not very cruel to have so entrammelled me, so destroyed my freedom. Will you confess this in the letter you must write immediately and do all you can to console me in it--make it rich as a draught of poppies to intoxicate me--write the softest words and kiss them, that I may at least touch my lips where yours have been. For myself, I know not how to express my devotion to so fair a form; I want a brighter word than bright, a fairer word than fair. I almost wish we were butterflies and lived but three summer days--three such days with you I could fill with more delight than fifty common years could ever contain.' "Ain't that wonderful, Roger? Wants to get drunk on poppies and kiss the writin' and thinks after that he'll be made into a butterfly. Your pa couldn't have been far from bein' a butterfly when he bought this book. There ain't no sense in it. And this--why, it's your pa's writin', Roger! I ain't seen it for years." Miss Mattie leaned forward in her chair and brought the letter to Constance close to the light. She read it through, calmly, without haste or excitement. Roger's hands gripped the arms of his chair and his face turned ashen. His whole body was tense. [Sidenote: A Moment's Pain] Then, as swiftly as it had come, the moment passed. Miss Mattie took off her spectacles and leaned back in her chair with great weariness evident in every line of her figure. [Sidenote: Crazy as a Loon] "Roger," she said, sadly, "there's no use in tryin' to conceal it from you any longer. Your pa was crazy--as crazy as a loon. What with buyin' books so steady and readin' of 'em so continual, his mind got unhinged. I've always suspected it, and now I know. "Your pa gets this book, and reads all this stuff that's been written about 'Fanny,' and he don't see no reason why he shouldn't duplicate it and maybe get it printed. I knew he set great store by books, but it comes to me as a shock that he was allowin' to write 'em. Some of the time he sees he's crazy himself. Didn't you see, there where he says, 'I hope you do not blame me because I went mad'? 'Mad' is the refined word for crazy. "Then he goes on about eatin' husks and bein' starved. That's what I told him when he insisted on havin' oatmeal cooked for his breakfast every mornin'. I told him humans couldn't expect to live on horse-feed, but, la sakes! He never paid no attention to me. I could set and talk by the hour just as I'm talkin' to you and he wasn't listenin' any more'n you be." "I am listening, Mother," he assured her, in a forced voice. He could not say with what joyful relief. "Maybe," she went on, "I'd 'a' been more gentle with your pa if I'd realised just what condition his mind was in. There's a book in the attic full of just such writin' as this. I found it once when I was cleaning, but I never paid no more attention to it. I surmised it was somethin' he was copyin' out of another book that he'd borrowed from the minister, but I see now. The Lord tempers the wind to the shorn lamb. If I'd 'a' knowed what it was then, maybe I couldn't have bore it as I can now." Seizing his opportunity, Roger put the book and the letter aside. Miss Mattie slipped out of its wrapper the paper which Roger had brought to her from the post-office that same night, and began to read. Roger sat back in his chair with his eyes closed, meditating upon the theory of Chance, and wondering if, after all, there was a single controlling purpose behind the extraordinary things that happened. [Sidenote: Inner Turmoil] Miss Mattie wiped her spectacles twice and changed her position three times. Then she got another chair and moved the lamp closer. At last she clucked sharply with her false teeth--always the outward evidence of inner turmoil or displeasure. "What's the matter, Mother?" "I can't see with these glasses," she said, fretfully. "I can see a lot better without 'em than I can with 'em." "Have you wiped them?" "Yes, I've wiped 'em till it's a wonder the polish ain't all wore off the glass." "Put them up close to your eyes instead of wearing them so far down on your nose." "I've tried that, but the closer they get to my eyes, the more I can't see. The further away they are, the better 't is. When I have 'em off, I can see pretty good." "Then why don't you take them off?" "That sounds just like your pa. Do you suppose, after payin' seven dollars and ninety cents for these glasses, and more'n twice as much for my gold-bowed ones, that I ain't goin' to use 'em and get the benefit of 'em? Your pa never had no notion of economy. They're just as good as they ever was, and I reckon I'll wear 'em out, if I live." "But, Mother, your eyes may have changed. They probably have." [Sidenote: Miss Mattie's Eyes] Miss Mattie went to the kitchen and brought back a small, cracked mirror. She studied the offending orbs by the light, very carefully, both with and without her spectacles. "No, they ain't," she announced, finally. "They're the same size and shape and colour that they've always been, and the specs are the same. Your pa bought 'em for me soon after you commenced readin' out of a reader, and they're just as good as they ever was. It must be the oil. I've noticed that it gets poorer every time the price goes up." She pushed the paper aside with a sigh. "I was readin' such a nice story, too." "Shan't I read it to you, Mother?" "Why, I don't know. Do you want to?" "Surely, if you want me to." "Then you'd better begin a new story, because I'm more'n half-way through this one." "I'll begin right where you left off, Mother. It doesn't make a particle of difference to me." "But you won't get the sense of it. I'd like for you to enjoy it while you're readin'." "Don't worry about my enjoying it--you know I've always been fond of books. If there's anything I don't understand, I can ask you." "All right. Begin right here in _True Gold, or Pretty Crystal's Love_. This is the place: 'With a terrible scream, Crystal sprang toward the fire escape, carrying her mother and her little sister in her arms.'" [Sidenote: Two Sighs] For nearly two hours, Roger read, in a deep, mellow voice, of the adventures of poor, persecuted Crystal, who was only sixteen, and engaged to a floor-walker in 'one of the great city's finest emporiums of trade.' He and his mother both sighed when he came to the end of the installment, but for vastly different reasons. "Ain't it lovely, Roger?" "It's what you might call 'different,'" he temporised, with a smile. "Just think of that poor little thing havin' her house set afire by a rival suitor just after she had paid off the mortgage by savin' out of her week's wages! Do you suppose he will ever win her?" "I shouldn't think it likely." "No, you wouldn't, but the endin' of those stories is always what you wouldn't expect. It's what makes 'em so interestin' and, as you say, 'different.'" Roger did not answer. He merely yawned and tapped impatiently on the table with his fingers. [Sidenote: Nine o'Clock] "What time is it?" she asked, adjusting her spectacles carefully upon the ever-useful and unfailing wart. "A little after nine." "Sakes alive! It's time I was abed. I've got to get up early in the mornin' and set my bread. Good-night." "Good-night, Mother." "Don't set up long. Oil is terrible high." "All right, Mother." Miss Mattie went upstairs and closed her door with a resounding bang. Roger heard her strike a match on a bit of sandpaper tacked on the wall near the match-safe, and close the green blinds that served the purpose of the more modern window-shades. Soon, a deep, regular sound suggestive of comfortable slumber echoed and re-echoed overhead. Then, and then only, he dared to go out. [Sidenote: A Light in the Window] He sat on the narrow front porch for a few minutes, deeply breathing the cool air and enjoying the beauty of the night. Across the way, the little grey house seemed lonely and forlorn. The upper windows were dark, but downstairs Barbara's lamp still shone. "Sewing, probably," mused Roger. "Poor little thing." As he watched, the lamp was put out. Then a white shadow moved painfully toward the window, bent, and struck a match. Star-like, Barbara's signal-light flamed out into the gloom, with its eager message. "She wants me," he said to himself. The joy was inextricably mingled with pain. "She wants me," he thought, "and I must not go." "Why?" asked his heart, and his conscience replied, miserably, "Because." For ten or fifteen minutes he argued with himself, vainly. Every objection that came forward was reasoned down by a trained mind, versed in the intricacies of the law. The deprivations of the fathers need not always descend unto the children. At last he went over, wondering whether his father had not more than once, and at the same hour, taken the same path. [Sidenote: Two Hours of Life] Barbara was out in the garden, dreaming. For the first time in years, when she had work to do, she had laid it aside before eleven o'clock. But, in two hours, she could have made little progress with her embroidery, and she chose to take for herself two hours of life, out of what might prove to be the last night she had to live. When Roger opened the gate, Barbara took her crutches and rose out of her low chair. "Don't," he said. "I'm coming to you." She had brought out another chair, with great difficulty, in anticipation of his coming. Her own was near the moonflower that climbed over the tiny veranda and was now in full bloom. The white, half-open trumpets, delicately fragrant, had more than once reminded him of Barbara herself. "What a brute I'd be," thought Roger, with a pang, "if I had disappointed her." "I'm so glad," said Barbara, giving him a cool, soft little hand. "I began to be afraid you couldn't come." "I couldn't, just at first, but afterward it was all right. How are you?" "I'm well, thank you, but I'm going to be made better to-morrow. That's why I wanted to see you to-night--it may be for the last time." Her words struck him with chill foreboding. "What do you mean?" "To-morrow, some doctors are coming down from the city, with two nurses and a few other things. They're going to see if I can't do without these." She indicated the crutches with an inclination of her golden head. "Barbara," he gasped. "You mustn't. It's impossible." "Nothing is impossible any more," she returned, serenely. "That isn't what I meant. You mustn't be hurt." [Sidenote: A Wonderful World] "I'm not going to be hurt--much. It's all to be done while I'm asleep. Miss Wynne, a lady from the hotel, brought Doctor Conrad to see me. Afterward, he came again by himself, and he says he is very sure that it will come out all right. And when I'm straight and strong and can walk, he's going to try to have father made to see. A fairy godmother came in and waved her wand," went on Barbara, lightly, "and the poor became rich at once. Now the lame are to walk and the blind to see. Is it not a wonderful world?" "Barbara!" cried Roger; "I can't bear it. I don't want you changed--I want you just as you are." "Such impediments as are placed in the path of progress!" she returned. Her eyes were laughing, but her voice had in it a little note of tenderness. "Will you do something for me?" "Anything--everything." "It's only this," said Barbara, gently. "If it should turn out the other way, will you keep father from being lonely? Miss Wynne has promised that he shall never want for anything, and, at the most, it couldn't be long until he was with me again, but, in the meantime, would you, Roger? Would you try to take my place?" "Nobody in the world could ever take your place, but I'd try--God knows I'd try. Barbara, I couldn't bear it, if----" "Hush. There isn't any 'if.' It's all coming right to-morrow." [Sidenote: Beauty of a Saint] The full moon had swung slowly up out of the sea, and the misty, silvery light touched Barbara lovingly. Her slender hands, crossed in her lap, seemed like those of a little child. Her deep blue eyes were lovelier than ever in the enchanted light--they had the calmness of deep waters at dawn, untroubled by wind or tide. Around her face her golden hair shimmered and shone like a halo. She had the unearthly beauty of a saint. "Afterward?" he asked, with a little choke in his voice. "I'll be in plaster for a long time, and, after that, I'll have to learn to walk." "And then?" "Work," she said, joyously. "Think of having all the rest of your life to work in, with no crutches! And if Daddy can see me--" she stopped, but he caught the wistfulness in her tone. "The first thing," she continued, "I'm going down to the sea. I have a fancy to go alone." "Have you never been?" "I've never been outside this house and garden but once or twice. Have you forgotten?" All the things he might have done came to Roger, remorsefully, and too late. He might have taken Barbara out for a drive almost any time during the last eight years. She could have been lifted into a low carriage easily enough and she had never even been to the sea. A swift, pitying tenderness made his heart ache. "Nobody ever thought of it," said Barbara, soothingly, as though she had read his thought, "and, besides, I've been too busy, except Sundays. But sometimes, when I've heard the shore singing as the tide came in, and seen the gulls fly past my window, and smelled the salt mist--oh, I've wanted it so." "I'd have taken you, if I hadn't been such a brute as to forget." [Sidenote: More than the Sea] "You've brought me more than the sea, Roger. Think of all the books you've carried back and forth so patiently all these years. You've done more for me than anybody in the world, in some ways. You've given me the magic carpet of the _Arabian Nights_, only it was a book, instead of a rug. Through your kindness, I've travelled over most of the world, I've met many of the really great people face to face, I've lived in all ages and all countries, and I've learned to know the world as it is now. What more could one person do for another than you have done for me?" "Barbara?" It was Miriam's voice, calling softly from an upper window. "You mustn't stay up late. Remember to-morrow." "All right, Aunty." Her answer carried with it no hint of impatience. "I forgot that we weren't in the house," she added, to Roger, in a low tone. "Must I go?" To-night, for some reason, he could not bear even the thought of leaving her. "Not just yet. I've been thinking," she continued, in a swift whisper, "about my mother and--your father. Of course we can't understand--we only know that they cared. And, in a way, it makes you and me something like brother and sister, doesn't it?" "Perhaps it does. I hadn't thought of that." [Sidenote: The Barrier Broken] All at once, the barrier that seemed to have been between them crashed down and was forgotten. Mysteriously, Roger was very sure that those four days had held no wrong--no betrayal of another's trust. His father would not have done anything which was not absolutely right. The thought made him straighten himself proudly. And the mother of the girl who leaned toward him, with her beautiful soul shining in her deep eyes, could have been nothing less than an angel. "To-morrow"--began Roger. [Sidenote: "To-morrow is Mine"] "To-morrow was made for me. God is giving me a day to be made straight in. To-morrow is mine, but--will you come and stay with father? Keep him away from the house and with you, until--afterward?" "I will, gladly." Barbara rose and Roger picked up her crutches. "You'll never have to do that for me again," she said, as she took them, "but there'll be lots of other things. Will you take in the chairs, please?" A lump was in his throat and he could not speak. When he came out, after having made a brief but valiant effort to recover his self-control, Barbara was standing at the foot of the steps, leaning on her crutches, with the moon shining full upon her face. Roger went to her. "Barbara," he said, huskily, "my father loved your mother. For the sake of that, and for to-morrow, will you kiss me to-night?" Smiling, Barbara lifted her face and gave him her lips as simply and sweetly as a child. "Good-night," she said, softly, but he could not answer, for, at the touch, the white fire burned in his blood and the white magic of life's Maytime went, singing, through his soul. XI Barbara's "To-morrow" The shimmering white silence of noon lay upon the land. Bees hummed in the clover, gorgeous butterflies floated drowsily over the meadows, and far in the blue distance a meadow-lark scattered his golden notes like rain upon the fields. [Sidenote: A Cold Shadow] The world teemed with life, and yet a cold shadow, as of approaching death, darkened the souls of two who walked together in the dusty road that led from the hills to the sea. The old man leaned heavily upon the arm of the younger, and his footsteps faltered. The young man's face was white and he saw dimly, as through a mist, but he tried to keep his voice even. From the open windows of the little grey house came the deadly sweet smell of anæsthetics, heavy with prescience and pain. It dominated, instantly, all the blended Summer fragrances and brought terror to them both. "I cannot bear it," said Ambrose North, miserably. "I cannot bear to have my baby hurt." "She isn't being hurt now," answered Roger, with dry lips. "She's asleep." "It may be the sleep that knows no waking. If you loved Barbara, you would understand." The boy's senses, exquisitely alive and quivering, merged suddenly into one unspeakable hurt. If he loved Barbara! Ah, did he not love her? What of last night, when he walked up and down in that selfsame road until dawn, alone with the wonder and fear and joy of it, and unutterably dreading the to-morrow that had so swiftly become to-day. "I was a fool," muttered Ambrose North. "I was a fool to give my consent." "It was her choice," the boy reminded him, "and when she walks----" "When she walks, it may be in the City Not Made With Hands. If I had said 'no,' we should not be out here now, while she--" The tears streamed over his wrinkled cheeks and his bowed shoulders shook. [Sidenote: All for the Best] "Don't," pleaded Roger. "It's all for the best--it must be all for the best." Neither of them saw Eloise approaching as she came up the road from the hotel. She was in white, as usual, bareheaded, and she carried a white linen parasol. She went to them, calling out brightly, "Good morning!" "Who is it?" asked the old man. "It must be Miss Wynne, I think." "What is it?" inquired Eloise, when she joined them. "What is the matter?" The blind man could not speak, but he pointed toward the house with a shaking hand. "It's Barbara, you know," said Roger. "They're in there--cutting her." The last words were almost a whisper. [Sidenote: Allan is There] "But you mustn't worry," cried Eloise. "Nothing can go wrong. Why, Allan is there." Insensibly her confidence in Allan and the clear ring of her voice relieved the unbearable tension. Surely, Barbara could not die if Allan were there. "It's hard, I know," Eloise went on, in her cool, even tones, "but there is no doubt about the ending. Allan is one of the few really great surgeons--he has done wonderful things. He has done things that everyone else said were impossible. Barbara will walk and be as straight and strong as any of us. Think what it will mean to her after twenty years of helplessness. How fine it will be to see her without the crutches." "I have never minded the crutches," said Roger. "I do not want her changed." "I cannot see her," sighed Ambrose North. "I have never seen my baby." "But you're going to," Eloise assured him, "for Allan says so, and whatever Allan says is true." At length, she managed to lead them farther away, though not out of sight of the house, and they all sat down on the grass. She talked continually and cheerfully, but the atmosphere was tense with waiting. Ambrose North bowed his grey head in his hands, and Roger, still pale, did not once take his eyes from the door of the little grey house. After what seemed an eternity, someone came out. It was one of Allan's assistants. A nurse followed, and put a black bag into the buggy which was waiting outside. Roger was on his feet instantly, watching. "Sit down," commanded Eloise, coolly. "Allan can see us from here, and he will come and tell us." Ambrose North lifted his grey head. "Have they--finished--with her?" "I don't know," returned Eloise. "Be patient just a little longer, please do." [Sidenote: All Right] Outwardly she was calm, but, none the less, a great sob of relief almost choked her when Doctor Conrad came across the road to them, swinging his black bag, and called out, in a voice high with hope, "All right!" * * * * * The sky was a wonderful blue, but the colour of the sea was deeper still. The vast reaches of sand were as white as the blown snow, and the Tower of Cologne had never been so fair as it was to-day. The sun shone brightly on the clear glass arches that made the cupola, and the golden bells swayed back and forth silently. [Sidenote: The Changed Tower] Barbara was trying to climb up to the cupola, but her feet were weary and she paused often to rest. The rooms that opened off from the various landings of the winding stairway were lovelier than ever. The furnishings had been changed since she was last there, and each room was made to represent a different flower. There was a rose room, all in pink and green, a pond-lily room in green and white, a violet room in green and lavender, and a gorgeous suite of rooms which someway seemed like a great bouquet of nasturtiums. But, strangely, there was no fragrance of cologne in the Tower. The bottles were all on the mantels, as usual, but Barbara could not open any of them. Instead, there was a heavy, sweet, sickening smell from which she could not escape, though she went continually from room to room. It followed her like some evil thing that threatened to overpower her. The Boy who had always been beside her, and whose face she could not see, was still in the Tower, but he was far away, with his back toward her. He seemed to be suffering and Barbara tried to get to him to comfort him, but some unforeseen obstacle inevitably loomed up in her path. [Sidenote: People in the Tower] There were many people in the Tower, and most of them were old friends, but there were some new faces. Her father was there, of course, and all the brave knights and lovely ladies of whom she had read in her books. Miss Wynne was there and she had never been in the Tower before, but Barbara smiled at her and was glad, though she wished they might have had cologne instead of the sickening smell which grew more deadly every minute. A grave, silent young man whose demeanour was oddly at variance with his red hair was there also. He had just come and it seemed that he was a doctor. Barbara had heard his name but could not remember it. There were also two young women in blue and white striped uniforms which were very neat and becoming. They wore white caps and smiled at Barbara. She had heard their names, too, but she had forgotten. None of them seemed to mind the heavy odour which oppressed her so. She opened the windows in the Tower and the cool air came in from the blue sea, but it changed nothing. "Come, Boy," she called across the intervening mist. "Let's go up to the cupola and ring all the golden bells." He did not seem to hear, so she called again, and again, but there was no response. It was the first time he had failed to answer her, and it made her angry. "Then," cried Barbara, shrilly, "if you don't want to come, you needn't, so there. But I'm going. Do you hear? I'm going. I'm going up to ring those bells if I have to go alone." Still, the Boy did not answer, and Barbara, her heart warm with resentment, began to climb the winding stairs. She did not hurry, for pictures of castles, towers, and beautiful ladies were woven in the tapestry that lined the walls. She came, at last, to the highest landing. There was only one short flight between her and the cupola. The clear glass arches were dazzling in the sun and the golden bells swayed temptingly. But a blinding, overwhelming fog drifted in from the sea, and she was afraid to move by so much as a step. She turned to go back, and fell, down--down--down--into what seemed eternity. [Sidenote: The Clouds Lift] Before long, the cloud began to lift. She could see a vague suggestion of blue and white through it now. The man with the red hair was talking, loudly and unconcernedly, to a tall man beside him whose face was obscured by the mist. The voices beat upon Barbara's ears with physical pain. She tried to speak, to ask them to stop, but the words would not come. Then she raised her hand, weakly, and silence came upon the room. Out of the fog rose Doctor Allan Conrad. He was tired and there was a strained look about his eyes, but he smiled encouragingly. He leaned over her and she smiled, very faintly, back at him. "Brave little girl," he said. "It's all right now. All we ever hoped for is coming very soon." Then he went out, and she closed her eyes. When she was again conscious of her surroundings, it was the next day, but she thought she had been asleep only a few minutes. At first there was numbness of mind and body. Then, with every heart-beat and throb by throb, came unbearable agony. A trembling old hand strayed across her face and her father's voice, deep with love and longing, whispered: "Barbara, my darling! Does it hurt you now?" "Just a little, Daddy, but it won't last long. I'll be better very soon." One of the blue and white nurses came to her and said, gently, "Is it very bad, Miss North?" [Sidenote: Intense Pain] "Pretty bad," she gasped. Then she tried to smile, but her white lips quivered piteously. The woman with the kind, calm face came back with a shining bit of silver in her hand. There was a sharp stab in Barbara's arm, and then, with incredible quickness, peace. "What was it?" she asked, wondering. "Poppies," answered the nurse. "They bring forgetfulness." "Barbara," said the old man, sadly, "I wish I could help you bear it----" "So you can, Daddy." "But how?" "Don't be afraid for me--it's coming out all right. And make me a little song." "I couldn't--to-day." "There is always a song," she reminded him. "Think how many times you have said to me, 'Always make a song, Barbara, no matter what comes.'" The old man stirred uneasily in his chair. "What about, dear?" "About the sea." [Sidenote: Song of the Sea] "The sea is so vast that it reaches around the world," he began, hesitatingly. "It sings upon the shore of every land, from the regions of perpetual ice and snow to the far tropic islands, where the sun forever shines. As it lies under the palms, all blue and silver, crooning so softly that you can scarcely hear it, you would not think it was the same sea that yesterday was raging upon an ice-bound shore. "If you listen to its ever-changing music you can hear almost anything you please, for the sea goes everywhere. Ask, and the sea shall sing to you of the frozen north where half the year is darkness and the impassable waste of waters sweeps across the pole. Ask, and you shall hear of the distant islands, where there has never been snow, and the tide may even bring to you a bough of olive or a leaf of palm. [Sidenote: Song of the Sea] "Ask, and the sea will give you red and white coral, queer shells, mystically filled with its own weird music, and treasures of fairy-like lace-work and bloom. It will sing to you of cool, green caves where the waves creep sleepily up to the rocks and drift out drowsily with the ebb of the tide. "It will sing of grey waves changing to foam in the path of the wind, and bring you the cry of the white gulls that speed ahead of the storm. It will sing to you of mermen and mermaids, chanting their own melodies to the accompaniment of harps with golden strings. Listen, and you shall hear the songs of many lands, merged into one by the sea that unites them all. "It bears upon its breast the great white ships that carry messages from one land to another. Silks and spices and pearls are taken from place to place along the vast highways of the sea. And if, sometimes, in a blinding tumult of terror and despair, the men and ships go down, the sea, remorsefully, brings back the broken spars, and, at last, gives up the dead. [Sidenote: The Dominant Chord] "Yet it is always beautiful, whether you see it grey or blue; whether it is mad with rage or moaning with pain, or only crooning a lullaby as the world goes to sleep. And in all the wonderful music there is one dominant chord, for the song of the sea, as of the world, is Love. "Long ago, Barbara--so long ago that it is written in only the very oldest books, Love was born in the foam of the sea and came to dwell upon the shore. And so the sea, singing forever of Love, creeps around the world upon an unending quest. When the tide sweeps in with the cold grey waves, foam-crested, or in shining sapphire surges that break into pearls, it is only the sea searching eagerly for the lost. So the loneliness and the beauty, the longing and the pain, belong to Love as to the sea." "Oh, Daddy," breathed Barbara, "I want it so." "What, dear? The sea?" "Yes. The music and the colour and the vastness of it. I can hardly wait until I can go." There was a long silence. "Why didn't you tell me?" asked the old man. "There would have been some way, if I had only known." "I don't know, Daddy. I think I've been waiting for this way, for it's the best way, after all. When I can walk and you can see, we'll go down together, shall we?" "Yes, dear, surely." "You must help me be patient, Daddy. It will be so hard for me to lie here, doing nothing." "I wish I could read to you." "You can talk to me, and that's better. Roger will come over some day and read to me, when he has time." "He was with me yesterday, while----" "I know," she answered, softly. "I asked him. I thought it would make it easier for you." [Sidenote: Father and Daughter] "My baby! You thought of your old father even then?" "I'm always thinking of you, Daddy, because you and I are all each other has got. That sounds queer, but you know what I mean." The calm, strong young woman in blue and white came back into the room. "She mustn't talk," she said, to the blind man. "To-morrow, perhaps. Come away now." "Don't take him away from me," pleaded Barbara. "We'll be very good and not say a single word, won't we?" "Not a word," he answered, "if it isn't best." [Sidenote: Peaceful Sleep] The afternoon wore away to sunset, the shadows grew long, and Barbara lay quietly, with her little hand in his. Long lines of light came over the hills and brought into the room some subtle suggestion of colour. Gradually, the pain came back, so keenly that it was not to be borne, and the kind woman with the bit of silver in her hand leaned over the bed once more. Quickly, the poppies brought their divine gift of peace again. And so, Barbara slept. Then Ambrose North gently loosened the still fingers that were interlaced with his, bent over, and, so gently as not to waken her, took her boy-lover's kiss from her lips. XII Miriam Miriam moved about the house, silently, as always. She had assumed the extra burden of Barbara's helplessness as she assumed everything--without comment, and with outward calm. [Sidenote: Joy and Duty] Only her dark eyes, that burned and glittered so strangely, gave hint of the restlessness within. She served Ambrose North with steadfast and unfailing devotion; she waited upon Barbara mechanically, but readily. An observer could not have detected any real difference in her bearing toward the two, yet the service of one was a joy, the other a duty. After the first week the nurse who had remained with Barbara had gone back to the city. In this short time, Miriam had learned much from her. She knew how to change a sheet without disturbing the patient very much; she could give Barbara both food and drink as she lay flat upon her back, and ease her aching body a little in spite of the plaster cast. Ambrose North restlessly haunted the house and refused to leave Barbara's bedside unless she was asleep. Often she feigned slumber to give him opportunity to go outdoors for the exercise he was accustomed to taking. And so the life of the household moved along in its usual channels. [Sidenote: A Living Image] As she lay helpless, with her pretty colour gone and the great braids of golden hair hanging down on either side, Barbara looked more like her dead mother than ever. Suffering had brought maturity to her face and sometimes even Miriam was startled by the resemblance. One day Barbara had asked, thoughtfully, "Aunty, do I look like my mother?" And Miriam had answered, harshly, "You're the living image of her, if you want to know." Miriam repeatedly told herself that Constance had wronged her--that Ambrose North had belonged to her until the younger girl came from school with her pretty, laughing ways. He had never had eyes for Miriam after he had once seen Constance, and, in an incredibly short time, they had been married. Miriam had been forced to stand by and see it; she had made dainty garments for Constance's trousseau, and had even been obliged to serve as maid of honour at the wedding. She had seen, day by day, the man's love increase and the girl's fancy wane, and, after his blindness came upon him, Constance would often have been cruelly thoughtless had not Miriam sternly held her to her own ideal of wifely duty. Now, when she had taken a mother's place to Barbara, and worked for the blind man as his wife would never have dreamed of doing, she saw the faithless one worshipped almost as a household god. The power to disillusionise North lay in her hands--of that she was very sure. What if she should come to him some day with the letter Constance had left for another man and which she had never delivered? What if she should open it, at his bidding, and read him the burning sentences Constance had written to another during her last hour on earth? Knowing, beyond doubt, that Constance was faithless, would he at last turn to the woman he had deserted for the sake of a pretty face? The question racked Miriam by night and by day. [Sidenote: Miriam's Jealousy] And, as always, the dead Constance, mute, accusing, bitterly reproachful, haunted her dreams. Her fear of it became an obsession. As Barbara grew daily more to resemble her mother, Miriam's position became increasingly difficult and complex. Sometimes she waited outside the door until she could summon courage to go in to Barbara, who lay, helpless, in the very room where her mother had died. Miriam never entered without seeing upon the dressing table those two envelopes, one addressed to Ambrose North and one to herself. Her own envelope was bulky, since it contained two letters beside the short note which might have been read to anybody. These two, with seals unbroken, were safely put away in Miriam's room. One was addressed to Laurence Austin. Miriam continually told herself that it was impossible for her to deliver it--that the person to whom it was addressed was dead. She tried persistently to forget the five years that had intervened between Constance's death and his. For five years, he had lived almost directly across the street and Miriam saw him daily. Yet she had not given him the letter, though the vision of Constance, dumbly pleading for some boon, had distressed her almost every night until Laurence Austin died. After that, there had been peace--but only for a little while. Constance still came, though intermittently, and reproached Miriam for betraying her trust. [Sidenote: The One Betrayal] As Barbara's twenty-second birthday approached, Miriam sometimes wondered whether Constance would not cease to haunt her after the other letter was delivered. She had been faithful in all things but one--surely she might be forgiven the one betrayal. The envelope was addressed, in a clear, unfaltering hand: "To My Daughter Barbara. To be opened upon her twenty-second birthday." In her brief note to Miriam, Constance had asked her to destroy it unopened if Barbara should not live until the appointed day. She had said nothing, however, about the other letter--had not even alluded to its existence. Yet there it was, apparently written upon a single sheet of paper and enclosed in an envelope firmly sealed with wax. The monogram, made of the interlaced initials "C.N.," still lingered upon the seal. For twenty years and more the letter had waited, unread, and the hands that once would eagerly have torn it open were long since made one with the all-hiding, all-absolving dust. * * * * * [Sidenote: At Supper] At supper, Ambrose North still had his fine linen and his Satsuma cup. Miriam sat at the other end, where the coarse cloth and the heavy dishes were. She used the fine china for Barbara, also, washing it carefully six times every day. The blind man ate little, for he was lonely without the consciousness that Barbara sat, smiling, across the table from him. "Is she asleep?" he asked, of Miriam. "Yes." "She hasn't had her supper yet, has she?" "No." "When she wakes, will you let me take it up to her?" "Yes, if you want to." "Miriam, tell me--does Barbara look like her mother?" His voice was full of love and longing. "There may be a slight resemblance," Miriam admitted. "But how much?" [Sidenote: The Same Old Question] A curious, tigerish impulse possessed Miriam. He had asked her this same question many times and she had always eluded him with a vague generalisation. "How much does she resemble her mother?" he insisted. "You told me once that they were 'something alike.'" "That was a long time ago," answered Miriam. She was breathing hard and her eyes glittered. "Barbara has changed lately." "Don't hide the truth for fear of hurting me," he pleaded. "Once for all I ask you--does Barbara resemble her mother?" For a moment Miriam paused, then all her hatred of the dead woman rose up within her. "No," she said, coldly. "Their hair and eyes are nearly the same colour, but they are not in the least alike. Why? What difference does it make?" "None," sighed the blind man. "But I am glad to have the truth at last, and I thank you. Sometimes I have fancied, when Barbara spoke, that it was Constance talking to me. It would have been a great satisfaction to me to have had my baby the living image of her mother, since I am to see again, but it is all right as it is." Since he was to see! Miriam had not counted upon that possibility, and she clenched her hands in swift remorse. If he should discover that she had lied to him, he would never forgive her, and she would lose what little regard he had for her. He had a Puritan insistence upon the literal truth. "How beautiful Constance was," he sighed. An inarticulate murmur escaped from Miriam, which he took for full assent. "Did you ever see anyone half so beautiful, Miriam?" Her throat was parched, but Miriam forced herself to whisper, "No." This much was truth. [Sidenote: A Beautiful Bride] "How sweet she was and what pretty ways she had," he went on. "Do you remember how lovely she was in her wedding gown?" Again Miriam forced herself to answer, "Yes." "Do you remember how people said we were mismated--that a man of fifty could never hope to keep the love of a girl of twenty, who knew nothing of the world?" "I remember," muttered Miriam. "And it was false, wasn't it?" he asked, hungering for assurance. "Constance loved me--do you remember how dearly she loved me?" [Sidenote: Beloved Constance] A thousand words struggled for utterance, but Miriam could not speak just then. She longed, as never before, to tear open the envelope addressed to Laurence Austin and read to North the words his beloved Constance had written to another man before she took her own life. She longed to tell him how, for months previous, she had followed Constance when she left the house, and discovered that she had a trysting-place down on the shore. He wanted the truth, did he? Very well, he should have it--the truth without mercy. "Constance," she began, huskily, "Constance loved----" "I know," interrupted Ambrose North. "I know how dearly she loved me up to the very last. Even Barbara, baby that she was, felt it. She remembers it still." Barbara's bell tinkled upstairs while he said the last words. "She wants us," he said, his face illumined with love. "If you will prepare her supper, Miriam, I will take it up." The room swayed before Miriam's eyes and her senses were confused. She had drawn her dagger to strike and it had been forced back into its sheath by some unseen hand. "But I will," she repeated to herself again and again as her trembling hands prepared Barbara's tray. "He shall know the truth--and from me." * * * * * "Barbara," said the old man, as he entered the room, "your Daddy has brought up your supper." "I'm glad," she responded, brightly. "I'm very hungry." "We have been talking downstairs of your mother," he went on, as he set down the tray. "Miriam has been telling me how beautiful she was, what winning ways she had, and how dearly she loved us. She says you do not look at all like her, Barbara, and we both have been thinking that you did." [Sidenote: Disappointed] Barbara was startled. Only a few days ago, Aunt Miriam had assured her that she was the living image of her mother. She was perplexed and disappointed. Then she reflected that when she had asked the question she had been very ill and Aunt Miriam was trying to answer in a way that pleased her. She generously forgave the deceit for the sake of the kindly motive behind it. "Dear Aunt Miriam," said Barbara, softly. "How good she has been to us, Daddy." "Yes," he replied; "I do not know what we should have done without her. I want to do something for her, dear. Shall we buy her a diamond ring, or some pearls?" "We'll see, Daddy. When I can walk, and you can see, we shall do many things together that we cannot do now." The old man bent down very near her. "Flower of the Dusk," he whispered, "when may I go?" "Go where, Daddy?" "To the city, you know, with Doctor Conrad. I want to begin to see." Barbara patted his hand. "When I am strong enough to spare you," she said, "I will let you go. When you see me, I want to be well and able to go to meet you without crutches. Will you wait until then?" "I want to see my baby. I do not care about the crutches, now that you are to get well. I want to see you, dear, so very, very much." "Some day, Daddy," she promised him. "Wait until I'm almost well, won't you?" "Just as you say, dear, but it seems so long." "I couldn't spare you now, Daddy. I want you with me every day." * * * * * [Sidenote: Miriam's Prayer] Though long unused to prayer, Miriam prayed that night, very earnestly, that Ambrose North might not recover his sight; that he might never see the daughter who lived and spoke in the likeness of her dead mother. It was long past midnight when she fell asleep. The house had been quiet for several hours. As she slept, she dreamed. The door opened quietly, yet with a certain authority, and Constance, in her grave-clothes, came into her room. The white gown trailed behind her as she walked, and the two golden braids, so like Barbara's, hung down over either shoulder and far below her waist. She fixed her deep, sad eyes upon Miriam, reproachfully, as always, but her red lips were curled in a mocking smile. "Do your worst," she seemed to say. "You cannot harm me now." [Sidenote: The Vision] The vision sat down in a low chair and rocked back and forth, slowly, as though meditating. Occasionally, she looked at Miriam doubtfully, but the mocking smile was still there. At last Constance rose, having come, apparently, to some definite plan. She went to the dresser, opened the lower drawer, and reached under the pile of neatly-folded clothing. Cold as ice, Miriam sprang to her feet. She was wide awake now, but the room was empty. The door was open, half-way, and she could not remember whether she had left it so when she went to bed. She had always kept her bedroom door closed and locked, but since Barbara's illness had left it at least ajar, that she might be able to hear a call in the night. Shaken like an aspen in a storm, Miriam lighted her candle and stared into the shadows. Nothing was there. The clock ticked steadily--almost maddeningly. It was just four o'clock. She, too, opened the lower drawer of the dresser and thrust her hand under the clothing. The letters were still there. She drew them out, her hands trembling, and read the superscriptions with difficulty, for the words danced, and made themselves almost illegible. Constance was coming back for the letters, then? That was out of Miriam's power to prevent, but she would keep the knowledge of their contents--at least of one. She thrust aside contemptuously the letter to Barbara--she cared nothing for that. [Sidenote: The Seal Broken] Taking the one addressed to "Mr. Laurence Austin; Kindness of Miss Leonard," she went back to bed, taking her candle to the small table that stood at the head of the bed. With forced calmness, she broke the seal which the dead fingers had made so long ago, opened it shamelessly, and read it. "You who have loved me since the beginning of time," the letter began, "will understand and forgive me for what I do to-day. I do it because I am not strong enough to go on and do my duty by those who need me. "If there should be meeting past the grave, some day you and I shall come together again with no barrier between us. I take with me the knowledge of your love, which has sheltered and strengthened and sustained me since the day we first met, and which must make even a grave warm and sweet. "And, remember this--dead though I am, I love you still; you and my little lame baby who needs me so and whom I must leave because I am not strong enough to stay. "Through life and in death and eternally, "Yours, "CONSTANCE." In the letter was enclosed a long, silken tress of golden hair. It curled around Miriam's fingers as though it were alive, and she thrust it from her. It was cold and smooth and sinuous, like a snake. She folded up the letter, put it back in the envelope with the lock of hair, then returned it to its old hiding-place, with Barbara's. "So, Constance," she said to herself, "you came for the letters? Come and take them when you like--I do not fear you now." [Sidenote: The Evidence] All of her suspicions were crystallised into certainty by this one page of proof. Constance might not have violated the letter of her marriage vow--very probably had not even dreamed of it--but in spirit, she had been false. "Come, Constance," said Miriam, aloud; "come and take your letters. When the hour comes, I shall tell him, and you cannot keep me from it." [Sidenote: Triumph] She was curiously at peace, now, and no longer afraid. Her dark eyes blazed with triumph as she lay there in the candle light. The tension within her had snapped when suspicion gave way to absolute knowledge. Thwarted and denied and pushed aside all her life by Constance and her memory, at last she had come to her own. XIII "Woman Suffrage" There was a shuffling step on the stairway, accompanied by spasmodic shrieks and an occasional "ouch." Roger looked up from his book in surprise as Miss Mattie made her painful way into the room. "Why, Mother. What's the matter?" [Sidenote: Miss Mattie's Back] Miss Mattie sat down in the chair she had made out of a flour barrel and screamed as she did so. "What is it?" he demanded. "Are you ill?" "Roger," she replied, "my back is either busted, or the hinge in it is rusty from overwork. I stooped over to open the lower drawer in my bureau, and when I come to rise up, I couldn't. I've been over half an hour comin' downstairs. I called you twice, but you didn't hear me, and I knowed you was readin', so I thought I might better save my voice to yell with." "I'm sorry," he said. "What can I do for you?" "About the first thing to do, I take it, is to put down that book. Now, if you'll put on your hat, you can go and get that new-fangled doctor from the city. The postmaster's wife told me yesterday that he'd sent Barbara one of them souverine postal cards and said on it he'd be down last night. As you go, you might stop and tell the Norths that he's comin', for they don't go after their mail much and most likely it's still there in the box. Tell Barbara that the card has a picture of a terrible high buildin' on it and the street is full of carriages, both horsed and unhorsed. If he can make the lame walk and the blind see, I reckon he can fix my back. I'll set here." "Shan't I get someone to stay with you while I'm gone, Mother? I don't like to leave you here alone. Miss Miriam would----" "Miss Miriam," interrupted his mother, "ain't fit company for a horse or cow, let alone a sufferin' woman. She just sets and stares and never says nothin'. I have to do all the talkin' and I'm in no condition to talk. You run along and let me set here in peace. It don't hurt so much when I set still." [Sidenote: Roger's Errand] Roger obediently started on his errand, but met Doctor Conrad half-way. The two had never been formally introduced, but Roger knew him, and the Doctor remembered Roger as "the nice boy" who was with Ambrose North and Eloise when he went over to tell them that Barbara was all right. "Why, yes," said Allan. "If it's an emergency case, I'll come there first. After I see what's the matter, I'll go over to North's and then come back. I seem to be getting quite a practice in Riverdale." When they went in, Roger introduced Doctor Conrad to the patient. "You'll excuse my not gettin' up," said Miss Mattie, "for it's about the gettin' up that I wanted to see you. Roger, you run away. It ain't proper for boys to be standin' around listenin' when woman suffrage is bein' discussed by the only people havin' any right to talk of it--women and doctors." Roger coloured to his temples as he took his hat and hurried out. With an effort Doctor Conrad kept his face straight, but his eyes were laughing. [Sidenote: What's Wrong?] "Now, what's wrong?" asked Allan, briefly, as Roger closed the door. "It's my back," explained the patient. "It's busted. It busted all of a sudden." "Was it when you were stooping over, perhaps to pick up something?" Miss Mattie stared at him in astonishment. "Are you a mind-reader, or did Roger tell you?" "Neither," smiled Allan. "Did a sharp pain come in the lumbar region when you attempted to straighten up?" "'Twan't the lumber room. I ain't been in the attic for weeks, though I expect it needs straightenin'. It was in my bedroom. I was stoopin' over to open a bureau drawer, and when I riz up, I found my back was busted." [Sidenote: The Prescription] "I see," said Allan. He was already writing a prescription. "If your son will go down and get this filled, you will have no more trouble. Take two every four hours." Miss Mattie took the bit of paper anxiously. "No surgical operation?" she asked. "No," laughed Allan. "No mortar piled up on me and left to set? No striped nurses?" "No plaster cast," Allan assured her, "and no striped nurses." "I reckon it ain't none of my business," remarked Miss Mattie, "but why didn't you do somethin' like this for Barbara instead of cuttin' her up? I'm worse off than she ever was, because she could walk right spry with crutches, and crutches wouldn't have helped me none when I was risin' up from the bureau drawer." "Barbara's case is different. She had a congenital dislocation of the femur." Miss Mattie's jaw dropped, but she quickly recovered herself. "And what have I got?" "Lumbago." "My disease is shorter," she commented, after a moment of reflection, "but I'll bet it feels worse." "I'll ask your son to come in if I see him," said Doctor Conrad, reaching for his hat, "and if you don't get well immediately, let me know. Good-bye." Roger was nowhere in sight, but he was watching the two houses, and as soon as he saw Doctor Conrad go into North's, he went back to his mother. [Sidenote: Miss Mattie's "Disease"] "Barbara's disease has three words in it, Roger," she explained, "and mine has only one, but it's more painful. You're to go immediately with this piece of paper and get it full of the medicine he's written on it. I've been lookin' at it, but I don't get no sense out of it. He said to take two every four hours--two what?" "Pills, probably, or capsules." "Pills? Now, Roger, you know that no pill small enough to swallow could cure a big pain like this in my back. The postmaster's wife had the rheumatiz last Winter, and she took over five quarts of Old Doctor Jameson's Pain Killer, and it never did her a mite of good. What do you think a paper that size, full of pills, can do for a person that ain't able to stand up without screechin'?" "Well, we'll try it anyway, Mother. Just sit still until I come back with the medicine." He went out and returned, presently, with a red box containing forty or fifty capsules. Miss Mattie took it from him and studied it carefully. "This box ain't more'n a tenth as big as the pain," she observed critically. Roger brought a glass of water and took out two of the capsules. "Take these," he said, "and at half past two, take two more. Let's give Doctor Conrad a fair trial. It's probably a more powerful medicine than it seems to be." [Sidenote: A Difficulty] Miss Mattie had some difficulty at first, as she insisted on taking both capsules at once, but when she was persuaded to swallow one after the other, all went well. "I suppose," she remarked, "that these long narrow pills have to be took endways. If a person went to swallow 'em crossways, they'd choke to death. I was careful how I took 'em, but other people might not be, and I think, myself, that round pills are safer." "I went to the office," said Roger, "and told the Judge I wouldn't be down to-day. I have some work I can do at home, and I'd rather not leave you." "It's just come to my mind now," mused Miss Mattie, ignoring his thoughtfulness, "about the minister's sermon Sunday. He said that everything that came to us might teach us something if we only looked for it. I've been thinkin' as I set here, what a heap I've learned about my back this mornin'. I never sensed, until now, that it was used in walkin'. I reckoned that my back was just kind of a finish to me and was to keep the dust out of my vital organs more'n anything else. This mornin' I see that the back is entirely used in walkin'. What gets me is that Barbara North had to have crutches when her back was all right. Nothin' was out of kilter but her legs, and only one of 'em at that." "Here's your paper, Mother." Roger pulled _The Metropolitan Weekly_ out of his pocket. "Lay it down on the table, please. It oughtn't to have come until to-morrow. I ain't got time for it now." "Why, Mother? Don't you want to read?" [Sidenote: Proper Care] The knot of hair on the back of Miss Mattie's head seemed to rise, and her protruding wire hairpins bristled. "I should think you'd know," she said, indignantly, "when you've been takin' time from the law to read your pa's books to Barbara North, that no sick person has got the strength to read. Even if my disease is only in one word when hers is in three, I reckon I'm goin' to take proper care of myself." "But you're sitting up and she can't," explained Roger, kindly. "Sittin' up or not sittin' up ain't got nothin' to do with it. If my back was set in mortar as it ought to have been, I wouldn't be settin' up either. I can't get up without screamin', and as long as I've knowed Barbara she's never been that bad. That new-fangled doctor hasn't come out of North's yet, either. How much do you reckon he charges for a visit?" "Two or three dollars, I suppose." Miss Mattie clucked sharply with her false teeth. "'Cordin' to that," she calculated, "he was here about twenty cents' worth. But I'm willin' to give him a quarter--that's a nickel extra for the time he was writin' out the recipe for them long narrow pills that would choke anybody but a horse if they happened to go down crossways. There he comes, now. If he don't come here of his own accord, you go out and get him, Roger. I want he should finish his visit." [Sidenote: The Doctor's Visit] But it was not necessary for Roger to go. "Of his own accord," Doctor Conrad came across the street and opened the creaky white gate. When he came in, he brought with him the atmosphere of vitality and good cheer. He had, too, that gentle sympathy which is the inestimable gift of the physician, and which requires no words to make itself felt. His quick eye noted the box of capsules upon the table, as he sat down and took Miss Mattie's rough, work-worn hand in his. "How is it?" he asked. "Better?" "Mebbe," she answered, grudgingly. "No more'n a mite, though." "That's all we can expect so soon. By to-morrow morning, though, you should be all right." His manner unconsciously indicated that it would be the one joy of a hitherto desolate existence if Miss Mattie should be perfectly well again in the morning. "How's my fellow sufferer?" she inquired, somewhat mollified. "Barbara? She's doing very well. She's a brave little thing." "Which is the sickest--her or me?" "As regards actual pain," replied Doctor Conrad, tactfully, "you are probably suffering more than she is at the present moment." "I knowed it," cried Miss Mattie triumphantly. "Do you hear that, Roger?" But Roger had slipped out, remembering that "woman suffrage" was not a proper subject for discussion in his hearing. [Sidenote: Wanderin' Fits] "I reckon he's gone over to North's," grumbled Miss Mattie. "When my eye ain't on him, he scoots off. His pa was the same way. He was forever chasin' over there and Roger's inherited it from him. Whenever I've wanted either of 'em, they've always been took with wanderin' fits." "You sent him out before," Allan reminded her. "So I did, but I ain't sent him out now and he's gone just the same. That's the trouble. After you once get an idea into a man's head, it stays put. You can't never get it out again. And ideas that other people puts in is just the same." "Women change their minds more easily, don't they?" asked Allan. He was enjoying himself very much. "Of course. There's nothin' set about a woman unless she's got a busted back. She ain't carin' to move around much then. The postmaster's wife was tellin' me about one of the women at the hotel--the one that's writin' the book. Do you know her?" "I've probably seen her." [Sidenote: All a Mistake] "The postmaster's wife's bunion was a hurtin' her awful one day when this woman come in after stamps, and she told her to go and help herself and put the money in the drawer. So she did, and while she was doin' it she told the postmaster's wife that she didn't have no bunion and no pain--that it was all a mistake." "'You wouldn't think so,' says the postmaster's wife, 'if it was your foot that had the mistake on it.' She was awful mad at first, but, after she got calmed down, the book-woman told her what she meant." "'There ain't no pain nor disease in the world,' she says. 'It's all imagination.' "'Well,' says the postmaster's wife, 'when the swellin' is so bad, how'm I to undeceive myself?' "The book-woman says: 'Just deny it, and affirm the existence of good. You just set down and say to yourself: "I can't have no bunion cause there ain't no such thing, and it can't hurt me because there is no such thing as pain. My foot is perfectly well and strong. I will get right up and walk."' "As soon as the woman was gone out with her stamps, the postmaster's wife tried it and like to have fainted dead away. She said she might have been able to convince her mind that there wasn't no bunion on her foot, but she couldn't convince her foot. She said there wasn't no such thing as pain, and the bunion made it its first business to do a little denyin' on its own account. You have to be awful careful not to offend a bunion. [Sidenote: A Test] "This mornin', while Roger was gone after them long, narrow pills that has to be swallowed endways unless you want to choke to death, I reckoned I'd try it on my back. So I says, right out loud: 'My back don't hurt me. It is all imagination. I can't have no pain because there ain't no such thing.' Then I stood up right quick, and--Lord!" Miss Mattie shook her head sadly at the recollection. "Do you know," she went on, thoughtfully, "I wish that woman at the hotel had lumbago?" Doctor Conrad's nice brown eyes twinkled, and his mouth twitched, ever so slightly. "I'm afraid I do, too," he said. "If she did, and wanted some of them long narrow pills, would you give 'em to her?" "Probably, but I'd be strongly tempted not to." [Sidenote: Surprise] When he took his leave, Miss Mattie, from force of habit, rose from her chair. "Ouch!" she said, as she slowly straightened up. "Why, I do believe it's better. It don't hurt nothin' like so much as it did." "Your surprise isn't very flattering, Mrs. Austin, but I'll forgive you. The next time I come up, I'll take another look at you. Good-bye." Miss Mattie made her way slowly over to the table where the box of capsules lay, and returned, with some effort, to her chair. She studied both the box and its contents faithfully, once with her spectacles, and once without. "You'd never think," she mused, "that a pill of that size and shape could have any effect on a big pain that's nowheres near your stomach. He must be a dreadful clever young man, for it sure is a searchin' medicine." XIV Barbara's Birthday "Fairy Godmother," said Barbara, "I should like a drink." [Sidenote: Fairy Godchild] "Fairy Godchild," answered Eloise, "you shall have one. What do you want--rose-dew, lilac-honey, or a golden lily full of clear, cool water?" "I'll take the water, please," laughed Barbara, "but I want more than a lily full." Eloise brought a glass of water and managed to give it to Barbara without spilling more than a third of it upon her. "What a pretty neck and what glorious shoulders you have," she commented, as she wiped up the water with her handkerchief. "How lovely you'd look in an evening gown." "Don't try to divert me," said Barbara, with affected sternness. "I'm wet, and I'm likely to take cold and die." "I'm not afraid of your dying after you've lived through what you have. Allan says you're the bravest little thing he has ever seen." The deep colour dyed Barbara's pale face. "I'm not brave," she whispered; "I was horribly afraid, but I thought that, even if I were, I could keep people from knowing it." "If that isn't real courage," Eloise assured her, "it's so good an imitation that it would take an expert to tell the difference." "I'm afraid now," continued Barbara. Her colour was almost gone and she did not look at Eloise. "I'm afraid that, after all, I can never walk." She indicated the crutches at the foot of her bed by a barely perceptible nod. "I have Aunt Miriam keep them there so that I won't forget." "Nonsense," cried Eloise. "Allan says that you have every possible chance, so don't be foolish. You're going to walk--you must walk. Why, you mustn't even think of anything else." "It would seem strange," sighed Barbara, "after almost twenty-two years, why--what day of the month is to-day?" "The sixteenth." [Sidenote: Twenty-two] "Then it is twenty-two. This is my birthday--I'm twenty-two years old to-day." "Fairy Godchild, why didn't you tell me?" "Because I'd forgotten it myself." "You're too young to begin to forget your birthdays. I'm past thirty, but I still 'keep tab' on mine." "If you're thirty, I must be at least forty, for I'm really much older than you are. And Roger is an infant in arms compared with me." "Wise lady, how did you grow so old in so short a time?" "By working and reading, and thinking--and suffering, I suppose." "When you're well, dear, I'm going to try to give you some of the girlhood you've never had. You're entitled to pretty gowns and parties and beaux, and all the other things that belong to the teens and twenties. You're coming to town with me, I hope--that's why I'm staying." Barbara's blue eyes filled and threatened to overflow. "Oh, Fairy Godmother, how lovely it would be. But I can't go. I must stay here and sew and try to make up for lost time. Besides, father would miss me so." [Sidenote: Wait and See] Eloise only smiled, for she had plans of her own for father. "We won't argue," she said, lightly, "we'll wait and see. It's a great mistake to try to live to-morrow, or even yesterday, to-day." When Eloise went back to the hotel, her generous heart full of plans for her protégé, Miriam did not hear her go out, and so it happened that Barbara was alone for some time. Ambrose North had gone for one of his long walks over the hills and along the shore, expecting to return before Eloise left Barbara. For some vague reason which he himself could not have put into words, he did not like to leave her alone with Miriam. When Miriam came upstairs, she paused at the door to listen. Hearing no voices, she peeped within. Barbara lay quietly, looking out of the window, and dreaming of the day when she could walk freely and joyously, as did the people who passed and repassed. Miriam went stealthily to her own room, and took out the letter to Barbara. She had no curiosity as to its contents. If she had, it would be an easy matter to open it, and put it into another envelope, without the address, and explain that it had been merely enclosed with instructions as to its delivery. [Sidenote: Miriam Delivers the Letter] Taking it, she went into the room where Barbara lay--the same room where the dead Constance had lain so long before. "Barbara," she said, without emotion, "when your mother died she left this letter for you, in my care." She put it into the girl's eager, outstretched hand and left the room, closing the door after her. With trembling fingers, Barbara broke the seal, and took out the closely written sheet. All four pages were covered. The ink had faded and the paper was yellow, but the words were still warm with love and life. [Sidenote: The Letter] "Barbara, my darling, my little lame baby," the letter began. "If you live to receive this letter, your mother will have been dead for many years and, perhaps, forgotten. I have chosen your twenty-second birthday for this because I am twenty-two now, and, when you are the same age, you will, perhaps, be better fitted to understand than at any other time. "I trust you have not married, because, if you have, my warning may come too late. Never marry a man whom you do not know, absolutely, that you love, and when this knowledge comes to you, if there are no barriers in the way, do not let anything on God's earth keep you apart. "I have made the mistake which many girls make. I came from school, young, inexperienced, unbalanced, and eager for admiration. Your father, a brilliant man of more than twice my age, easily appealed to my fancy. He was handsome, courteous, distinguished, wealthy, of fine character and unassailable position. I did not know, then, that a woman could love love, rather than the man who gave it to her. "There is not a word to be said of him that is not wholly good. He has failed at no point, nor in the smallest degree. On the contrary, it is I who have disappointed him, even though I love him dearly and always have. I have never loved him more than to-day, when I leave you both forever. "My feeling for him is unchanged. It is only that at last I have come face to face with the one man of all the world--the one God made for me, back in the beginning. I have known it for a long, long time, but I did not know that he also loved me until a few days ago. "Since then, my world has been chaos, illumined by this unutterable light. I have been a true wife, and when I can be true no longer, it is time to take the one way out. I cannot live here and run the risk of seeing him constantly, yet trust myself not to speak; I cannot bear to know that the little space lying between us is, in reality, the whole world. "He is bound, too. He has a wife and a son only a little older than you are. If I stay, I shall be false to your father, to you, to him, and even to myself, because, in my relation to each of you, I shall be living a lie. [Sidenote: The Message] "Tell your dear father, if he still lives, that he has been very good to me, that I appreciate all his kindness, gentleness, patience, and the beautiful love he has given me. Tell him I am sorry I have failed him, that I have not been a better wife, but God knows I have done the best I could. Tell him I have loved him, that I love him still, and have never loved him more than I do to-day. But oh, my baby, do not tell him that the full-orbed sun has risen before one who knew only twilight before. "And, if you can, love your mother a little, as she lies asleep in her far-away grave. Your father, if he has not forgotten me, will have dealt gently with my memory--of that I am sure. But I do not quite trust Miriam, and I do not know what she may have said. She loved your father and I took him away from her. She has never forgiven me for that and she never will. [Sidenote: A Burden] "If I have done wrong, it has been in thought only and not in deed. I do not believe we can control thought or feeling, though action and speech can be kept within bounds. Forgive me, Barbara, darling, and love me if you can. "Your "MOTHER." The last words danced through the blurring mist and Barbara sobbed aloud as she put the letter down. Blind though he was, her father had felt the lack--the change. The pity of it all overwhelmed her. Her thought flew swiftly to Roger, but--no, he must not know. This letter was written to the living and not to the dead. Aunt Miriam would ask no questions--she was sure of that--but the message to her father lay heavily upon her soul. How could she make him believe in the love he so hungered for even now? As the hours passed, Barbara became calm. When Miriam came in to see if she wanted anything, she asked for pencil and paper, and for a book to be propped up on a pillow in front of her, so that she might write. Miriam obeyed silently, taking an occasional swift, keen look at Barbara, but the calm, impassive face and the deep eyes were inscrutable. [Sidenote: The Meaning Changed] As soon as she was alone again, she began to write, with difficulty, from her mother's letter, altering it as little as possible, and yet changing the meaning of it all. She could trust herself to read from her own sheet, but not from the other. It took a long time, but at last she was satisfied. It was almost dusk when Ambrose North returned, and Barbara asked for a candle to be placed on the small table at the head of her bed. She also sent away the book and pencil and the paper she had not used. Miriam's curiosity was faintly aroused, but, as she told herself, she could wait. She had already waited long. "Daddy," said, Barbara, softly, when they were alone, "do you know what day it is?" "No," he answered; "why?" "It's my birthday--I'm twenty-two to-day." "Are you? Your dear mother was twenty-two when she--I wish you were like your mother, Barbara." "Mother left a letter with Aunt Miriam," said Barbara, gently. "She gave it to me to-day." The old man sprang to his feet. "A letter!" he cried, reaching out a trembling hand. "For me?" [Sidenote: Barbara Reads to her Father] Barbara laughed--a little sadly. "No, Daddy--for me. But there is something for you in it. Sit down, and I'll read it to you." "Read it all," he cried. "Read every word." "Barbara, my darling, my little lame baby," read the girl, her voice shaking, "if you live to read this letter, your mother will have been dead for many years, and possibly forgotten." "No," breathed Ambrose North--"never forgotten." "I have chosen your twenty-second birthday for this, because I am twenty-two now, and when you are the same age, it will be as if we were sisters, rather than mother and daughter." "Dear Constance," whispered the old man. "When I came from school, I met your father. He was a brilliant man, handsome, courteous, distinguished, of fine character and unassailable position." Barbara glanced up quickly. The dull red had crept into his wrinkled cheeks, but his lips were parted in a smile. "There is not a word to be said of him that is not wholly good. He has failed at no point, nor in the smallest degree. I have disappointed him, I fear, even though I love him dearly and always have. I have never loved him more than I do to-day, when I leave you both forever. "Tell your dear father, if he still lives, that he has been very good to me, that I appreciate all his kindness, gentleness, patience, and the beautiful love he has given me. Tell him I am sorry I have failed him----" "Oh, dear God!" he cried. "_She_ fail?" "That I have not been a better wife," Barbara went on, brokenly. "Tell him I have loved him, that I love him still, and have never loved him more than I do to-day. "Forgive me, both of you, and love me if you can. Your Mother." In the tense silence, Barbara folded up both sheets and put them back into the envelope. Still, she did not dare to look at her father. When, at last, she turned to him, sorely perplexed and afraid, he was still sitting at her bedside. He had not moved a muscle, but he had changed. If molten light had suddenly been poured over him from above, while the rest of the room lay in shadow, he could not have changed more. [Sidenote: As by Magic] The sorrowful years had slipped from him, and, as though by magic, Youth had come back. His shoulders were still stooped, his face and hands wrinkled, and his hair was still as white as the blown snow, but his soul was young, as never before. "Barbara," he breathed, in ecstasy. "She died loving me." The slender white hand stole out to his, half fearfully. "Yes, Daddy, I've always told you so, don't you know?" Her senses whirled, but she kept her voice even. "She died loving me," he whispered. The clock ticked steadily, a door closed below, and a little bird outside chirped softly. There was no other sound save the wild beating of Barbara's heart, which she alone heard. Still transfigured, he sat beside the bed, holding her hand in his. [Sidenote: Far-Away Voices] Far-away voices sounded faintly in his ears, for, like a garment, the years had fallen from him and taken with them the questioning and the fear. Into his doubting heart Constance had come once more, radiant with new beauty, thrilling his soul to new worship and new belief. "She died loving me," he said, as though he could scarcely believe his own words. "Barbara, I know it is much to ask, for it must be very precious to you, but--would you let me hold the letter? Would you let me feel the words I cannot see?" Choking back a sob, Barbara took both sheets out of the envelope and gave them to him. "Show me," he whispered, "show me the line where she wrote, 'Tell him I love him still, and have never loved him more than I do to-day.'" When Barbara put his finger upon the words, he bent and kissed them. "What does it say here?" He pointed to the paragraph beginning, "I have made the mistake which many girls make." "It says," answered Barbara, "'There is not a word to be said of him that is not wholly good.'" He bent and kissed that, too. "And here?" His finger pointed to the line, "I did not know that a woman could love love, rather than the man who gave it to her." "That is where it says again, 'Tell him I have loved him, that I love him still, and have never loved him more than I do to-day.'" "Dear, blessed Constance," he said, crushing the lie to his lips. "Dear wife, true wife; truest of all the world." Barbara could bear no more. "Let me have the letter again, Daddy." [Sidenote: After Years of Waiting] "No, dear, no. After all these years of waiting, let me keep it for a little while. Just for a little while, Barbara. Please." His voice broke at the end. "For a little while, then, Daddy," she said, slowly; "only a little while." [Sidenote: His Illumined Face] He went out, with the precious letter in his hand. Miriam was in the hall, but he was unconscious of the fact. She shrank back against the wall as he passed her, with his fine old face illumined as from some light within. In his own room, he sat down, after closing the door, and spread the two sheets on the table before him. He moved his hands caressingly over the lines Constance had written in ink and Barbara in pencil. "She died loving me," he said to himself, "and I was wrong. She did not change when I was blind and Barbara was lame. All these years I have been doubting her while her own assurance was in the house. "She thought she failed me--the dear saint thought she failed. It must take me all eternity to atone to her for that. But she died loving me." His thought lingered fondly upon the words, then the tears streamed suddenly over his blind face. "Oh, Constance, Constance," he cried aloud, forgetting that the dead cannot hear. "You never failed me! Forgive me if you can." XV The Song of the Pines Upon the couch in the sitting-room, though it was not yet noon, Miss Mattie slept peacefully. She had the repose, not merely of one dead, but of one who had been dead long and was very weary at the time of dying. As Doctor Conrad had expected, her back was entirely well the morning following his visit, and when she awoke, free from pain, she had dinned his praises into Roger's ears until that long-suffering young man was well-nigh fatigued. The subject was not exhausted, however, even though Roger was. [Sidenote: A Wonder-Worker] "I'll tell you what it is, Roger," Miss Mattie had said, drawing a long breath, and taking a fresh start; "a young man that can cure a pain like mine, with pills that size, has got a great future ahead of him as well as a brilliant past behind. He's a wonder-worker, that's what he is, not to mention bein' a mind-reader as well." She had taken but a half dozen of the capsules the first day, having fallen asleep after taking the third dose. When Roger went to the office, very weary of Doctor Conrad's amazing skill, Miss Mattie had resumed her capsules and, shortly thereafter, fallen asleep. She had slept for the better part of three days, caring little for food and not in the least for domestic tasks. At the fourth day, Roger became alarmed, but Doctor Conrad had gone back to the city, and there was no one within his reach in whom he had confidence. [Sidenote: The Sleeping Woman] At last it seemed that it was time for him to act, and he shook the sleeping woman vigorously. "What's the matter, Roger?" she asked, drowsily; "is it time for my medicine?" "No, it isn't time for medicine, but it's time to get up. Your back doesn't hurt you, does it?" "No," murmured Miss Mattie, "my back is as good as it ever was. What time is it?" "Almost four o'clock and you've been asleep ever since ten this morning. Wake up." "Eight--ten--twelve--two--four," breathed Miss Mattie, counting on her fingers. Then, to his astonishment, she sat up straight and rubbed her eyes. "If it's four, it's time for my medicine." She went over to the cupboard in which the precious box of capsules was kept, took two more, and returned to the couch. She still had the box in her hand. "Mother," gasped Roger, horrified. "What are you taking that medicine for?" "For my back," she responded, sleepily. "I thought your back was well." "So 'tis." "Then what in thunder do you keep on taking dope for?" Miss Mattie sat up. She was very weary and greatly desired her sleep, but it was evident that Roger must be soothed first. [Sidenote: Getting her Money's Worth] "You don't seem to understand me," she sighed, with a yawn. "After payin' a dollar and twenty cents for that medicine, do you reckon I'm goin' to let it go to waste? I'm goin' to keep right on takin' it, every four hours, as he said, until it's used up." "Mother!" "Don't you worry none, Roger," said Miss Mattie, kindly, with a drowsy smile. "Your mother is bein' took care of by a wonderful doctor. He makes the lame walk and the blind see and cures large pains with small pills. I am goin' to stick to my medicine. He didn't say to stop takin' it." "But, Mother, you mustn't take it when there is no need for it. He never meant for you to take it after you were cured. Besides, you might have the same trouble again when we couldn't get hold of him." "How'm I to have it again?" demanded Miss Mattie, pricking up her ears, "when I'm cured? If I take all the medicine, I'll stay cured, won't I? You ain't got no logic, Roger, no more'n your pa had." "I wish you wouldn't, Mother," pleaded the boy, genuinely distressed. "It's the medicine that makes you sleep so." "I reckon," responded Miss Mattie, settling herself comfortably back among the pillows, "that he wanted me to have some sleep. In all my life I ain't never had such sleep as I'm havin' now. You go away, Roger, and study law. You ain't cut out for medicine." The last words died away in an incoherent whisper. Miss Mattie slept again, with the box tightly clutched in her hand. As her fingers gradually loosened their hold, Roger managed to gain possession of it without waking her. He did not dare dispose of it, for he well knew that the maternal resentment would make the remainder of his life a burden. Besides, she might have another attack, when the ministering mind-reader was not accessible. If it were possible to give her some harmless substitute, and at the same time keep the "searching medicine" for a time of need. [Sidenote: A Bright Idea] A bright idea came to Roger, which he hastened to put into execution. He went to the druggist and secured a number of empty capsules of the same size. At home, he laboriously filled them with flour and replaced those in the box with an equal number of them. He put the "searching medicine" safely away in his desk at the office, and went to work, his heart warmed by the pleasant consciousness that he had done a good deed. When he went home at night, Miss Mattie was partially awake and inclined to be fretful. "The strength is gone out of my medicine," she grumbled, "and it ain't time to take more. I've got to set here and be deprived of my sleep until eight o'clock." Roger prepared his own supper and induced his mother to eat a little. When the clock began to strike eight, she took two of the flour-filled capsules, confidently climbed upstairs, and--such is the power of suggestion--was shortly asleep. [Sidenote: Favourable Opportunity] Having an unusually favourable opportunity, Roger went over to see Barbara. He had not seen her since the night before the operation, but Doctor Conrad had told him that in a few days he might be allowed to talk to her or read to her for a little while at a time. Miriam opened the door for him, and, he thought, looked at him with unusual sharpness. "I guess you can see her," she said, shortly. "I'll ask her." In the pathetically dingy room, out of which Barbara had tried so hard to make a home, he waited until Miriam returned. "They said to come up," she said, and disappeared. Roger climbed the creaking stairs and made his way through the dark, narrow hall to the open door from whence a faint light came. "Come in," called Barbara, as he paused. Ambrose North sat by her bedside holding her hand, but she laughingly offered the other to Roger. "Bad boy," she said; "why haven't you come before? I've lain here in the window and watched you go back and forth for days." "I didn't dare," returned Roger. "I was afraid I might do you harm by coming and so I stayed away." "Everybody has been so kind," Barbara went on. "People I never saw nor heard of have come to inquire and to give me things. You're absolutely the last one to come." [Sidenote: Last but Not Least] "Last--and least?" "Not quite," she said, with a smile. "But I haven't been lonely. Father has been right beside me all the time except when I've been asleep, haven't you, Daddy?" "I've wanted to be," smiled the old man, "but sometimes they made me go away." "Tell me about the Judge's liver," suggested Barbara, "and Fido. I've been thinking a good deal about Fido. Did his legal document hurt him?" [Sidenote: Fido] "Not in the least. On the contrary, he thrived on it. He liked it so well that he's eaten others as opportunity offered. The Judge is used to it now, and doesn't mind. I've been thinking that it might save time and trouble if, when I copied papers, I took an extra carbon copy for Fido. That pup literally eats everything. He's cut some of his teeth on a pair of rubbers that a client left in the office, and this noon he ate nearly half a box of matches." "I suppose," remarked Barbara, "that he was hungry and wanted a light lunch." "That'll be about all from you just now," laughed Roger. "You're going to get well all right--I can see that." "Of course I'm going to get well. Who dared to say I wasn't?" "Nobody that I know of. Do you want me to bring Fido to see you?" "Some day," said Barbara, thoughtfully, "I would like to have you lead Fido up and down in front of the house, but I do not believe I would care to have him come inside." So they talked for half an hour or more. The blind man sat silently, holding Barbara's hand, too happy to feel neglected or in any way slighted. From time to time her fingers tightened upon his in a reassuring clasp that took the place of words. Acutely self-conscious, Roger's memory harked back continually to the last evening he and Barbara had spent together. In a way, he was grateful for North's presence. It measurably lessened his constraint, and the subtle antagonism that he had hitherto felt in the house seemed wholly to have vanished. At last the blind man rose, still holding Barbara's hand. "It is late for old folks to be sitting up," he said. "Don't go, Daddy. Make a song first, won't you? A little song for Roger and me?" He sat down again, smiling. "What about?" he asked. "About the pines," suggested Barbara--"the tallest pines on the hills." There was a long pause, then, clearing his throat, the old man began. [Sidenote: Small Beginnings] "Even the tall and stately pines," he said, "were once the tiniest of seeds like everything else, for everything in the world, either good or evil, has a very small beginning. "They grow slowly, and in Summer, when you look at the dark, bending boughs, you can see the year's growth in paler green at the tips. No one pays much attention to them, for they are very dark and quiet compared with the other trees. But the air is balmy around them, they scatter a thick, fragrant carpet underneath, and there is no music in the world, I think, like a sea-wind blowing through the pines. "When the brown cones fall, the seeds drop out from between the smooth, satin-like scales, and so, in the years to come, a dreaming mother pine broods over a whole forest of smaller trees. A pine is lonely and desolate, if there are no smaller trees around it. A single one, towering against the sky, always means loneliness, but where you see a little clump of evergreens huddled together, braving the sleet and snow, it warms your heart. "In Summer they give fragrant shade, and in Winter a shelter from the coldest blast. The birds sleep among the thick branches, finding seeds for food in the cones, and, on some trees, blue, waxen berries. [Sidenote: A Love Story] "Before the darkness came to me, I saw a love story in a forest of pines. One tree was very straight and tall, and close beside it was another, not quite so high. The taller tree leaned protectingly over the other, as if listening to the music the wind made on its way from the hills to the sea. As time went on, their branches became so thickly interlaced that you could scarcely tell one from the other. "Around them sprang up half a dozen or more smaller trees, sheltered, brooded over, and faithfully watched by these two with the interlaced branches. The young trees grew straight and tall, but when they were not quite half grown, a man came and cut them all down for Christmas trees. "When he took them away, the forest was strangely desolate to these two, who now stood alone. When the Daughters of Dawn opened wide the gates of darkness, and the Lord of Light fared forth upon the sea, they saw it not. When it was high noon, and there were no shadows, even upon the hill, it seemed that they might lift up their heads, but they only twined their branches more closely together. When all the flaming tapestry of heaven was spread in the West, they leaned nearer to each other, and sighed. [Sidenote: Bereft] "When the night wind stirred their boughs to faint music, it was like the moan of a heart that refuses to be comforted. When Spring danced through the forest, leaving flowers upon her way, while all the silences were filled with life and joy, these two knew it not, for they were bereft. "Mating calls echoed through the woods, and silver sounds dripped like rain from the maples, but there was no love-song in the boughs of the pines. The birds went by, on hushed wings, and built their nests far away. "When the maples put on the splendid robes of Autumn, the pines, more gaunt and desolate than ever, covered the ground with a dense fabric of needles, lacking in fragrance. When the winds grew cool, and the Little People of the Forest pattered swiftly through the dead and scurrying leaves, there was no sound from the pines. They only waited for the end. "When storm swept through the forest and the other trees bowed their heads in fear, these two straightened themselves to meet it, for they were not afraid. Frightened birds took refuge there, and the Little People, with wild-beating hearts, crept under the spreading boughs to be sheltered. "Vast, reverberating thunders sounded from hill to hill, and the sea answered with crashing surges that leaped high upon the shore. Suddenly, from the utter darkness, a javelin of lightning flashed through the pines, but they only trembled and leaned closer still. "One by one, with the softness of falling snow, the leaves dropped upon the brown carpet beneath, but there was no more fragrance, since the sap had ceased to move through the secret channels and breathe balm into the forest. Snow lay heavily upon the lower boughs and they broke, instead of bending. When Spring danced through the world again, piping her plaintive music upon the farthest hills, the pines were almost bare. [Sidenote: As One] "All through the sweet Summer the needles kept dropping. Every frolicsome breeze of June carried some of them a little farther down the road; every full moon shone more clearly through the barrier of the pines. And at last, when the chill winds of Autumn chanted a requiem through the forest, it was seen that the pines had long been dead, but they so leaned together and their branches were so interlaced, that, even in death, they stood as one. "They had passed their lives together, they had borne the same burdens, faced the same storms, and rejoiced in the same warmth of Summer sun. One was not left, stricken, long after the other was dead; their last grief was borne together and was lessened because it was shared. I stand there sometimes now, where the two dead trees are leaning close together, and as the wind sighs through the bare boughs, it chants no dirge to me, but only a hymn of farewell. [Sidenote: Together with Love] "There is nothing in all the world, Barbara, that means so much as that one word, 'together,' and when you add 'love' to it, you have heaven, for God himself can give no more joy than to bring together two who love, never to part again." "Thank you," said Barbara, gently, after a pause. "I thank you too," said Roger. Ambrose North rose and offered his hand to Roger. "Good-night," he said. "I am glad you came. Your father was my friend." Then he bent to kiss Barbara. "Good-night, my dear." "Friend," repeated Roger to himself, as the old man went out. "Yes, friend who never betrayed you or yours." The boy thrilled with passionate pride at the thought. Before the memory of his father his young soul stood at salute. Barbara's eyes followed her father fondly as he went out and down the hall to his own room. When his door closed, Roger came to the other chair, sat down, and took her hand. "It's not really necessary," explained Barbara, with a faint pink upon her cheeks. "I shall probably recover, even if my hand isn't held all the time." "But I want to," returned Roger, and she did not take her hand away. Her cheeks took on a deeper colour and she smiled, but there was something in her deep eyes that Roger had never seen there before. "I've missed you so," he went on. "And I have missed you." She did not dare to say how much. "How long must you lie here?" "Not much longer, I hope. Somebody is coming down next week to take off the plaster; then, after I've stayed in bed a little longer, they'll see whether I can walk or not." [Sidenote: The Crutches] She sighed wistfully and a strange expression settled on her face as she looked at the crutches which still leaned against the foot of her bed. "Why do you have those there?" asked Roger, quickly. "To remind me always that I mustn't hope too much. It's just a chance, you know." "If you don't need them again, may I have them?" "Why?" she asked, startled. "Because they are yours--they've seemed a part of you ever since I've known you. I couldn't bear to have thrown away anything that was part of you, even if you've outgrown it." "Certainly," answered Barbara, in a high, uncertain voice. "You're very welcome and I hope you can have them." "Barbara!" Roger knelt beside the bed, still keeping her hand in his. "What did I say that was wrong?" "Nothing," she answered, with difficulty. "But, after bearing all this, it seems hard to think that you don't want me to be--to be separated from my crutches. Because they have belonged to me always--you think they always must." "Barbara! When you've always understood me, must I begin explaining to you now? I've never had anything that belonged to you, and I thought you wouldn't mind, if it was something you didn't need any more--I wouldn't care what it was--if----" "I see," she interrupted. A blinding flash of insight had, indeed, made many things wonderfully clear. "Here--wouldn't you rather have this?" [Sidenote: A Knot of Blue Ribbon] She slipped a knot of pale blue ribbon from the end of one of her long, golden braids, and gave it to him. "Yes," he said. Then he added, anxiously, "are you sure you don't need it? If you do----" "If I do," she answered, smiling, "I'll either get another, or tie my braid with a string." Outwardly, they were back upon the old terms again, but, for the first time since the mud-pie days, Barbara was self-conscious. Her heart beat strangely, heavy with the prescience of new knowledge. When Roger rose from his chair with a bit of blue ribbon protruding from his coat pocket, she laughed hysterically. But Roger did not laugh. He bent over her, with all his boyish soul in his eyes. She crimsoned as she turned away from him. [Sidenote: Please?] "Please?" he asked, very tenderly. "You did once." "No," she cried, shrilly. Roger straightened himself instantly. "Then I won't," he said, softly. "I won't do anything you don't want me to--ever." XVI Betrayal The long weeks dragged by and, at last, the end of Barbara's imprisonment drew near. The red-haired young man who had previously assisted Doctor Conrad came down with one of the nurses and removed the heavy plaster cast. The nurse taught Miriam how to massage Barbara with oils and exercise the muscles that had never been used. "Doctor Conrad told me," said the red-haired young man, "to take your father back with me to-morrow, if you were ready to have him go. The sooner the better, he thought." [Sidenote: Love and Terror] Barbara turned away, with love and terror clutching coldly at her heart. "Perhaps," she said, finally. "I'll talk with father to-night." Her own forgotten agony surged back into her remembrance, magnified an hundred fold. Fear she had never had for herself strongly asserted itself now, for him. "If it should come out wrong," she thought, "I could never forgive myself--never in the wide world." When the doctor and nurse had gone to the hotel and Miriam was busy getting supper, Ambrose North came quietly into Barbara's room. "How are you, dear?" he asked, anxiously. "I'm all right, Daddy, except that I feel very queer. It's all different, some way. Like the old woman in _Mother Goose_, I wonder if this can be I." There was a long pause. "Are they going back to-morrow," he asked, "the doctor and nurse who came down to-day?" "Yes," answered Barbara, in a voice that was little more than a whisper. The old man took her hand in his and leaned over her. "Dear," he pleaded, "may I go, too?" Barbara was startled. "Have they said anything to you?" [Sidenote: Long Waiting] "No, I was just thinking that I could go with them as well as with Doctor Conrad. It is so long to wait," he sighed. "I cannot bear to have you hurt," answered Barbara, with a choking sob. "I know," he said, "but I bore it for you. Have you forgotten?" There was no response in words, but she breathed hard, every shrill respiration fraught with dread. "Flower of the Dusk," he pleaded, "may I go?" "Yes," she sobbed. "I have no right to say no." "Dear, don't cry." The old man's voice was as tender as though she had been the merest child. "The dream is coming true at last--that you can walk and I can see. Think what it will mean to us both. And oh, Barbara, think what it will be to me to see the words your dear mother wrote to you--to know, from her own hand, that she died loving me." [Sidenote: Systematic Lying] Barbara suddenly turned cold. The hand that seemingly had clutched her heart was tearing unmercifully at the tender fibre now. He would read her mother's letter and know that his beloved Constance was in love with another; that she took her own life because she could bear it no more. He would know that they were poor, that the house was shabby, that the pearls and laces and tapestries had all been sold. He would know, inevitably, that Barbara's needle had earned their living for many years; he would see, in the dining-room, the pitiful subterfuge of the bit of damask, one knife and fork of solid silver, one fine plate and cup. Above all, he would know that Barbara herself had systematically lied to him ever since she could talk at all. And he had a horror of a lie. "Don't," she cried, weakly. "Don't go." "You promised Barbara," he said, gently. Then he added, proudly: "The Norths never go back on their spoken or written word. It is in the blood to be true and you have promised. I shall go to-morrow." Barbara cringed and shrank from him. "Don't, dear," he said. "Your hands are cold. Let me warm them in mine. I fear that to-day has been too much for you." "I think it has," she answered. The words were almost a whisper. [Sidenote: If the Dream Comes True] "Then, don't try to talk, Barbara. I will talk to you. I know how you feel about my going, but it is not necessary, for I do not fear in the least for myself. I am sure that the dream is coming true, but, if it should not--why, we can bear it together, dear, as we have borne everything. The ways of the Everlasting are not our ways, but my faith is very strong. [Sidenote: If the Dream Comes True] "If the dream comes true, as I hope and believe it will, you and I will go away, dear, and see the world. We shall go to Europe and Egypt and Japan and India, and to the Southern islands, to Greece and Constantinople--I have planned it all. Aunt Miriam can stay here, or we will take her with us, just as you choose. When you can walk, Barbara, and I can see, I shall draw a large check, and we will start at the first possible moment. The greatest blessing of money, I think, is the opportunity it gives for travel. I have been glad, too, so many times, that we are able to afford all these doctors and nurses. Think of the poor people who must suffer always because they cannot command services which are necessarily high-priced." Barbara's senses reeled and the cold, steel fingers clutched more closely at the aching fibre of her heart. Until this moment, she had not thought of the financial aspects of her situation--it had not occurred to her that Doctor Conrad and the blue and white nurses and even the red-haired young man would expect to be paid. And when her father went to the hospital--"I shall have to sew night and day all the rest of my life," she thought, "and, even then, die in debt." [Sidenote: The Lie] But over and above and beyond it all stood the Lie, that had lived in her house for twenty years and more and was now to be cast out, if--Barbara's heart stood still in horror because, for the merest fraction of an instant, she had dared to hope that her father might never see again. "I could not have gone alone," the old man was saying, "and even if I could, I should never have left you, but now, I think, the time is coming. I have dreamed all my life of the strange countries beyond the sea, and longed to go. Your dear mother and I were going, in a little while, but--" His lips quivered and he stopped abruptly. [Sidenote: Three Things] "What would you see, Daddy, if you had your choice? Tell me the three things in the world that you most want to see." With supreme effort, Barbara put self aside and endeavoured to lead him back to happier things. "Three things?" he repeated. "Let me think. If God should give me back my sight for the space of half an hour before I died, I should choose to see, first, your dear mother's letter in which she says that she died loving me; next, your mother herself as she was just before she died, and then, dear, my Flower of the Dusk--my baby whom I never have seen. Perhaps," he added, thoughtfully, "perhaps I should rather see you than Constance, for, in a very little while, I should meet her past the sunset, where she has waited so long for me. But the letter would come first, Barbara--can you understand?" "Yes," she breathed, "I understand." The hope in her heart died. She could not ask for the letter. He took it from his pocket as though it were a jewel of great price. "Put my finger on the words that say, 'I love him still.'" Blinded with tears and choked by sobs, Barbara pointed out the line. That, at least, was true. The old man raised it to his lips as a monk might raise his crucifix when kneeling in penitential prayer. "I keep it always near me," he said, softly. "I shall keep it until I can see." * * * * * Long after he had gone to bed, Barbara lay trembling. The problem that had risen up before her without warning seemed to have no possible solution. If he recovered his sight, she could not keep him from knowing their poverty. One swift glance would show him all--and destroy his faith in her. That was unavoidable. But--need he know that the dead had deceived him too? The innate sex-loyalty, which is strong in all women who are really fine, asserted itself in full power now. It was not only the desire to save her father pain that made Barbara resolve, at any cost, to keep the betraying letter from him. It was also the secret loyalty, not of a child to an unknown mother, but of woman to woman--of sex to sex. [Sidenote: To-Day and To-Morrow] The house was very still. Outside, a belated cricket kept up his cheery fiddling as he fared to his hidden home. Sometimes a leaf fell and rustled down the road ahead of a vagrant wind. The clock ticked monotonously. Second by second and minute by minute, To-Morrow advanced upon Barbara; that To-Morrow which must be made surely right by the deeds of To-Day. "If I could go," murmured Barbara. She was free of the plaster and she could move about in bed easily. Ironically enough, her crutches leaned against the farther wall, in sight but as completely out of reach as though they were in the next room. Barbara sat up in bed and, cautiously, placed her two tiny bare feet on the floor. With great effort, she stood up, sustained by a boundless hope. She discovered that she could stand, even though she ached miserably, but when she attempted to move, she fell back upon the bed. She could not walk a step. [Sidenote: Vanishing Hopes] Faint with fear and pain, she got back into bed. She knew, now, all that the red-haired young man had refused to tell her. He was too kind to say that she was not to walk, after all. He was leaving it for Doctor Conrad--or Eloise. Objects in the room danced before her mockingly. Her crutches were veiled by a mist--those friendly crutches which had served her so well and were now out of her reach. But Barbara had no time for self-pity. The dominant need of the hour was pressing heavily upon her. With icy, shaking fingers, Barbara rang her bell. Presently Miriam came in, attired in a flannel dressing-gown which was hopelessly unbecoming. Barbara was moved to hysterical laughter, but she bit her lips. "Aunt Miriam," she said, trying to keep her voice even, "father has a letter of mine in his coat pocket which I should like to read again to-night. Will you bring me his coat, please?" Miriam turned away without a word. Her face was inscrutable. "Don't wake him," called Barbara, in a shrill whisper. "If he is not asleep, wait until he is. I would not have him wakened, but I must have the coat to-night." From his closed door came the sound of deep, regular breathing. Miriam turned the knob noiselessly, opened the door, and slipped in. When her eyes became accustomed to the darkness, she found the coat easily. It had not taken long. Even Barbara might well be surprised at her quickness. Perhaps the letter was not in his coat--it might be somewhere else. At any rate, it would do no harm to make sure before going in to Barbara. Miriam went into her own room and calmly lighted a candle. [Sidenote: The Letter Recovered] Yes, the letter was there--two sheets: one in ink, in Constance's hand, the other, in pencil, written by Barbara. Why should Barbara write to one who was blind? With her curiosity now thoroughly aroused, Miriam hastily read both letters, then put them back. Her lips were curled in a sneer when she took the coat into Barbara's room and gave it to her without speaking. The girl thrust an eager hand into the inner pocket and, with almost a sob of relief, took out her mother's letter and her own version of it. "Thank you, Aunty," breathed Barbara. "I am sorry--to--to--disturb you, but there was no--other way." [Sidenote: The Letter Destroyed] Miriam went out, as quietly as she had come, carrying the coat and leaving Barbara's door ajar. When she was certain that she was alone, Barbara tore the letter into shreds. So much, at least, was sure. Her father should never see them, whatever he might think of her. Miriam was standing outside the blind man's door. She fancied she heard him stir. It did not matter--there was plenty of time before morning to return the coat. She took it back into her own room and sat down to think. Her mirror reflected her face and the unbecoming dressing-gown. The candlelight, however, was kind. It touched gently upon the grey in her hair, hid the dark hollows under her eyes, and softened the lines in her face. It lent a touch of grace to her work-worn hands, moving nervously in her lap. After twenty-one years, this was what Constance had to say to Barbara--that she loved another man, that Ambrose North was not to know it, and that she did not quite trust Miriam. Also that Miriam had loved Ambrose North and had never quite forgiven Constance for taking him away from her. Out of the shadow of the grave, Miriam's secret stared her in the face. She had not dreamed, until she read the letter, that Constance knew. Barbara knew now, too. Miriam was glad that Barbara had the letter, for she knew that, in all probability, she would destroy it. [Sidenote: A Crumbling Structure] The elaborate structure of deceit which they had so carefully reared around the blind man was crumbling, even now. If he recovered his sight, it must inevitably fall. He would know, in an instant of revelation, that Miriam was old and ugly and not beautiful, as she had foolishly led him to believe, years ago, when he asked how much time had changed her. She looked pitifully at her hands, rough and knotted and red through untiring slavery for him and his. She and Barbara would be sacrificed--no, for he would forgive Barbara anything. She was the only one who would lose through his restored vision, unless Constance might, in some way, be revealed to him as she was. _"I do not quite trust Miriam. She loved your father and I took him away from her."_ The cruel sentences moved crazily before her as in letters of fire. The letter was gone. Ambrose North would never see the evidence of Constance's distrust of her, nor come, without warning, upon Miriam's pitiful secret which, with a woman's pride, she would hide from him at all costs. None the less, Constance had stabbed her again. A ghostly hand clutching a dagger had suddenly come up from the grave, and the thrust of the cold, keen steel had been very sure. [Sidenote: Scheming Miriam] For twenty years and more, she had been tempted to read to the blind man the letter Constance had written to Laurence Austin just before she died. For that length of time, her desire to blacken Constance, in the hope that the grief-stricken heart might once more turn to her, had warred with her love and her woman's fear of hurting the one she loved. To-night, even in the face of the letter to Barbara, she knew that she should never have courage to read it to him, nor even to give it to him with her own hands. In case he recovered his sight, she might leave it where he would find it. She was glad, now, that the envelope was torn, for he would not be apt to open a letter addressed to another, even though Constance had penned the superscription and the man to whom it was addressed was dead. His fine sense of honour would, undoubtedly, lead him to burn it. But, if the letter were in a plain envelope, sealed, and she should leave it on his dresser, he would be very sure to open it, if he saw it lying there, and then---- Miriam smiled. Constance would be paid at last for her theft of another woman's suitor, for her faithlessness and her cowardly desertion. There was a heavy score against Constance, who had so belied the meaning of her name, and the twenty years had added compound interest. North might not--probably would not--turn again to Miriam after all these years; she saw that plainly to-night for the first time, but he would, at any rate, see that he had given up the gold for the dross. Miriam got her work-box and began to mend the coat lining. She had not known that it was torn. She wondered how he would feel when he discovered that the precious letter was lost. Would he blame Barbara--or her? It would be too bad to have him lose the comfort those two sheets of paper had given him. Miriam had seen him as he sat alone for hours in his own room, with the door ajar, caressing the written pages as though they were alive and answered him with love for love. She knew it was Constance's letter to Barbara, but she had lacked curiosity as to its contents until to-night. [Sidenote: The Plot] The letter to Laurence Austin was written on paper of the same size. There was still some of it, in Constance's desk, in the living-room downstairs. Suppose she should replace one letter with the other, and, if he ever read it, let him have it all out with Barbara, who was trying to save him from knowledge that he should have had long ago. The coat slipped to the floor as Miriam considered the plan. Perhaps one of them would ask her what it was. In that case she would say, carelessly: "Oh, a letter Constance left for Laurence Austin. I did not think it best to deliver it, as it could do no good and might do a great deal of harm." She would have the courage for that, surely, but, if she failed at the critical moment, she could say, simply: "I do not know." She crept downstairs and returned with a sheet of Constance's note-paper. Neither she nor Barbara had ever been obliged to use it, and it was far back in a corner of a deep drawer, together with North's check-book, which had been useless for so many years. As she had expected, it exactly matched the other sheet. She folded the two together, with the letter to Laurence Austin inside. North would not be disappointed, now, when he reached into his pocket and found no fond letter from his dead but still beloved Constance. Barbara could not change this, by rewriting into anything save a cry of passionate love. [Sidenote: Subtle Revenge] Miriam's whole being glowed with satisfaction. She thrilled with the pleasure of this subtle revenge upon Constance, who was fully repaid, now, for writing as she had. _"I do not quite trust Miriam. She loved your father and I took him away from her."_ She repeated the words in a whisper, and smiled to think of the deeply loving, passionate page to another man that had filled the place. Let the Fates do their worst now, for when he should read it---- [Sidenote: The Irony of Fate] Some way, Miriam was very sure that his sight was to be restored to him. She perceived, now, the irony of his caressing the letter Constance had written to Barbara. How much more ironical it would be to see him, with that unearthly light upon his face, moving his hand across the page Constance had written to Laurence Austin just before she died. Miriam well knew that the other letters had come first and that Constance's last word had been to the man she loved. The hours passed on, slowly. The mist that hung over the sea was faintly touched with dawn before Miriam arose, and, taking the coat, went back to Ambrose North's room. She paused outside the door, but all was still. She entered, quietly, and laid the coat on a chair. She started back to the door, but, before she touched the knob, the blind man stirred in his sleep. "Constance," he said, drowsily, "is that you? Have you come back, Beloved? It has seemed so long." [Sidenote: Surging Hatred] Miriam set her lips grimly against the surging hatred for the dead that welled up within her. She went out hastily, and noiselessly closed the door. XVII "Never Again" Barbara did not mind lying in bed, now that the heavy plaster cast was gone and she could move about with comparative freedom. Every day, Aunt Miriam massaged her with fragrant oils, and she faithfully took the slight exercises she was bidden to take, even though she knew it was of no use. She was glad, now, that she had kept the crutches in sight, for they had steadily reminded her not to hope too much. [Sidenote: Bitterly Disappointed] Still, she was bitterly disappointed, though she thought she had not allowed herself to hope--that she had done it only because Eloise wanted her to. Perhaps the red-haired young man knew, and perhaps not--she was not so sure, now, that he had refrained from telling her through motives of kindness. But Doctor Conrad would know, instantly, and he and Eloise would be very sorry. Barbara wiped away her tears and compressed her lips tightly together. "I won't cry," she said to herself. "I won't, I won't, I won't." Her father had gone to the city with the red-haired young man and the nurse. He had been gone more than a week, and Barbara had received no news of him save a brief note from Doctor Conrad. He said that her father had been to a specialist of whom he had spoken to her, and that an operation had been decided upon. He would tell her all about it, he added, when he saw her. Day by day, Barbara lived over the last evening she and her father had spent together--all the fear and foreboding. She did not for a moment regret that she had taken his precious letter from him and destroyed it. She would face whatever she must, and as bravely as she might, but he should not be hurt in that manner--she had taken the one sure way to spare him that. [Sidenote: A Long Farewell] When he came back, and realised to the full how steadily she had deceived him, he could love her no more. When he said good-bye to her the morning he went away, it had been good-bye in more ways than one. It was a long farewell to the love and confidence that had bound him to her; an eternal separation, in spirit, from the child he had loved. The tears came when she remembered how he had said good-bye to her. Aunt Miriam and the red-haired young man and the nurse had left them alone together for what might be the last time on earth, and was most surely the last time as regarded the old, sweet relation so soon to be severed--unless he came back blind, as he had gone. The old man had leaned over her and kissed her twice. "Flower of the Dusk," he had said, with surpassing tenderness, "when I come back, the dusk will change to dawn. If the darkness lifts I shall see you first, and so, for a little while, good-bye." He had gone downstairs quickly and lightly, as one who is glad to go. When she last saw him, he was walking ahead of the young doctor and the nurse, straight and eager and almost young again, sustained by the same boundless hope that had given Barbara strength for her ordeal. [Sidenote: Dr. Conrad Comes Again] It was almost two weeks before Doctor Conrad came down. He had been obliged, lately, to miss several Sundays with Eloise. When Aunt Miriam came and told Barbara that he was downstairs, she felt a sudden, sharp pang of disappointment, not for herself, but for him. He had tried so hard and done so much, and to know that he had failed-- Even in the face of her own bitter outlook, she could be sorry for him. But, when he came in, he did not seem to need anyone's sympathy. He was so magnificently young and strong, so full of splendid vitality. Barbara's failing courage rose in answer to him and she smiled as she offered a frail little hand. "Well, little girl," said Doctor Allan, sitting down on the bed beside her, "how goes it?" "Tell me about father," begged Barbara, ignoring the question. [Sidenote: The Main Trouble] "Father is doing very well," Allan assured her. "He has recovered nicely from the operation and we have strong hope for the sight of one eye if not for both. I can almost promise you partial restoration, but, of course, it is impossible to tell definitely until later. His heart is very weak--that seems to be the main trouble now." Barbara lay very still, with her eyes closed. "Aren't you glad?" asked Doctor Allan, in surprise. "Yes," answered Barbara, with difficulty. "Indeed, yes. I was just thinking." "A penny for your thoughts," he smiled. "Are they going to take off the bandages there at the hospital?" "Why, yes--of course." "They mustn't!" cried Barbara, sitting up in bed. "Or, if they have to, I must go there. Doctor Conrad, I must see my father before he regains his sight." "Why?" asked Allan. "Don't cry, little girl--tell me." His voice was very soothing, and, as he spoke, he took hold of her fluttering hands. The strong clasp was friendly and reassuring. "Because I've lied to him," sobbed Barbara. "I've made him think we were rich instead of poor. He doesn't know that I've earned our living all these years by sewing, and that we've had to sell everything that anybody would buy--the pearls and laces and everything. He hates a lie and he'll despise me. It will break his heart. I'd rather tell him myself than to have him find it out." "Little girl," said Allan, in his deep, tender voice; "dear little girl. Nobody on earth could blame you for doing that, least of all your father. If he's half the man I think he is, he'll only love you the more for doing it." Barbara looked up at him, her deep blue eyes brimming with tears. "Do you think," she asked, chokingly, "that he ever can forgive me?" [Sidenote: A Promise] Allan laughed. "In a minute," he assured her. "Of course he'll forgive you. But I'll promise you that you shall see him first. As far as that is concerned, I can take the bandages off myself, after he comes home." "Can you really? And will you?" "Surely. Now don't fret about it any more. Let's see how you're getting on." In an instant the man was pushed into the background and the great surgeon took his place. He went at his work with the precision and power of a perfect machine, guided by that unspoken sympathy which was his inestimable gift. He tested muscles and bones and turned the joint in its socket. Barbara watched his face anxiously. His forehead was set in a frown and his eyes were keen, but the rest of his face was impassive. "Sit up," he said. "Now, turn this way. That's right--now stand up." Barbara obeyed him, trembling. In a minute more he would know. "Stand on this side only. Now, can you walk?" "No," answered Barbara, in a sad little whisper, "I can't." She reached for her faithful crutches, which leaned against the foot of the bed, but Doctor Allan snatched them away from her. "No," he said, with his face illumined. "Never again." [Sidenote: New Hopes] Barbara gasped. "What do you mean?" she asked, terror and joy strangely mingling in her voice. "Never again," Doctor Allan repeated. "You're never to have your crutches again." Barbara gazed at him in astonishment. She stood there in her little white night-gown, which was not long enough to cover her bare pink feet, with a great golden braid hanging over either shoulder and far below her waist. Her blue eyes were very wide and dark. "Am I going to walk?" she asked, in a queer little whisper. "Certainly, except when you're riding, or sitting down, or asleep." "I can't believe it," she answered, with quivering lips. Then she threw her arms around Doctor Allan's neck and kissed him with the sweet impulsiveness of a child. "Thank you," he said, softly. "Now we'll walk." [Sidenote: Walking Again] He put his arm around her and Barbara took a few stumbling steps. Aunt Miriam opened the door and came in. "Look," cried Barbara. "I'm walking." "So I see," replied Miriam. "I heard the noise and came up to see what was the matter. I thought perhaps you wanted something." She retreated as swiftly as she had come. Allan stared after her and seemed to be on the verge of saying something very much to the point, but fortunately held his peace. "You'll have to learn," he said, to Barbara, with a new gentleness in his tone. "Your balance is entirely different and these muscles and joints will have to learn to work. Keep up the exercise and the massage. You can have a cane, if you like, but no crutches. Is there someone who would help you for an hour or so every day?" "Roger would," she said, "or Aunt Miriam." "Better get Roger--he'll be stronger. And also more willing," he thought, but he did not say so. "Don't tire yourself, but walk a little every day, as you feel like it." When he went, he took the crutches with him. "You might be tempted," he explained, "if they were here, and your father's cane is all you really need. Be a good girl and I'll come up again soon." * * * * * [Sidenote: A Great Success] Eloise was watching from the piazza of the hotel, and, when he came in sight, she went up the road to meet him. "Oh, Allan," she cried, breathlessly, as she saw the crutches. "Is she----?" "She's all right. It's one of the most successful operations ever done in that line, even if I do say it as shouldn't." "Of course," smiled Eloise, looking up at him fondly. "I know _that_." They walked together down to the shore, followed by the deep and open interest of the rocking-chair brigade, marshalled twenty strong, on the hotel veranda. It was October and the children had all been taken back to school. The exquisite peace of the place was a thing to dream about and be spoken of only in reverent whispers. The tide was going out. Allan hurled one of the crutches far out to sea. "They've worked faithfully and long," he said, "and they deserve a little jaunt to Europe. Here goes." He was about to throw the other, but Eloise took it from him. "Let me," she suggested. "I'd love to throw a crutch over to Europe." She tried it, with the customary feminine awkwardness. It did not go beyond the shallow water, and speared itself, sharp end downward, in the soft sand. Allan laughed uproariously and Eloise coloured with shame. "Never mind," she said, with affected carelessness, "you couldn't have made it stick up in the sand like that, and I think it'll get to Europe just as soon as yours does, so there." They sat down on the beach, sheltered from prying eyes by a sand dune, and directly opposite the crutch, which wobbled with every wave that struck it. "Think what it means," said Eloise, "and think what it might mean. It might be part of a shipwreck, or someone who needed it very much might have dropped it accidentally out of a boat, or the one who had it might have died, after long suffering." "Or," continued Allan, "someone might have outgrown the need of it and thrown it away, as the tiny dwellers in the sea cast off their shells." [Sidenote: Thanks] Eloise turned to him, with her deep eyes soft with luminous mist. "I haven't thanked you," she said, "for all you have done for my little girl." She lifted her sweet face to his. "If you're going to thank me like that," said Allan, huskily, "I'll cut up the whole township and not even bother to save the pieces." "You needn't," laughed Eloise, "but it was dear of you. You've never done anything half so lovely in all your life." "It was you who did it, dear. I was but the humble instrument in your hands." "Was Barbara glad?" "I think so. She kissed me, too, but not like that." "Did she, really? The sweet, shy little thing. Bless her heart." "I infer, Miss Wynne," remarked Allan, in a judicial tone, "that you're not jealous." "Jealous? I should say not. Anybody who can get you away from me," she added, as an afterthought, "can have you with my blessing and a few hints as to your management." [Sidenote: Really Glad] "Safe offer," he commented. "Are you really glad I've done what I have for Barbara?" "Oh, my dear! So glad!" "Then," suggested Allan, hopefully, "don't you think I should be thanked again?" * * * * * "I forgot to ask you about that dear old man," said Eloise, after a little. "Is he going to be all right, too?" "Pretty much so, I think. We're very sure that he can see a little--he will not be totally blind. He will probably need glasses, but there will be plenty of time for that. His heart is the main trouble now. Any sudden excitement or shock might easily prove fatal." "Of course he won't have that." [Sidenote: Will It Last?] "We'll hope not, but life itself is more or less exciting and you can never tell what's going to break loose next. I have long since ceased to be surprised at anything, except the fact that you love me. I can't get used to that." "You will, though," said Eloise, a little sadly. "You'll get so used to it that you won't even look up when I come into the room--you'll keep right on reading your paper." "Impossible." "That's what they all say, but it's so." "Have all your previous husbands changed so quickly that you're afraid to try me?" "I've seen it so much," sighed Eloise. A great light broke in upon Allan. "Is that why?" he demanded, putting his arm around her. "No, you needn't try to get away, for you can't. Is that why I'm sentenced to all this infernal waiting?" Eloise bit her lips and did not answer. "Is it?" he asked, authoritatively. "A little," she whispered. "This is so sweet, and sometimes I'm afraid----" "Darling! Darling!" he said, drawing her closer. "You make me ashamed of my fellowmen when you say that. But do you want the year to stand still always at June?" "No," she answered. "I'm willing to grow with Love, from all the promise of Spring into the harvest and even into Winter, as long as the sweetness is there. Don't you understand, Allan? Who would wish for June when Indian Summer fills all the silences with shimmering amethystine haze? And who would give up a keen, crisp Winter day, when the air sets the blood to tingling, for apple blossoms or even roses? It's not that--I only want the sweetness to stay." "Please God, it shall," returned Allan, solemnly. He was profoundly moved. [Sidenote: Bank of Life] "It shouldn't be so hard to keep it," went on Eloise, thoughtfully. "I've been thinking about it a good deal, lately. Life will give us back whatever we put into it. In a way, it's just like a bank. Put joy into the world and it will come back to you with compound interest, but you can't check out either money or happiness when you have made no deposits." "Very true," he responded. "I never thought of it in just that way before." "If you put joy in, and love, unselfishness, and a little laughter, and perfect faith--I think they'll all come back, some day." A scarlet leaf from a maple danced along the beach, blown from some distant bough where the frost had set a flaming signal in the still September night. A yellow leaf from an elm swiftly caught it, and together they floated out to sea. [Sidenote: When?] "Sweetheart," said Allan, "do you see? The leaves are beginning to fall and in a little while the trees will be bare. How long are you going to keep me waiting for wife and home?" "I--don't--know." "Dear, can't you trust me?" "Yes, always," she answered, quickly. "You know that." "Then when?" "When all the colour is gone," she said, after a pause. "When the forest is desolate and the wind sighs through bare branches--when Winter chills our hearts--then I will come to you, and for a little while bring back the Spring." "Truly, Sweetheart?" "Truly." "You'll never be sorry, dear." He took her into his arms and sealed her promise upon her lips. XVIII The Passing of Fido [Sidenote: Alone in the Office] Fido had been in the office alone for almost three hours. The old man, who he knew was his master, and the young man, who was inclined to be impatient with him when he felt playful, had both gone out. The door was locked and there was nobody on the other side of it to answer a vigorous scratch or even a pleading whine. When people knocked, they went away again, almost immediately. The window-sills were too high for a little dog to reach, and there was no chair near. He walked restlessly around the office, stopping at intervals to sit down and thoughtfully contemplate his feet, which were much too large for the rest of him. He chased a fly that tickled his ear, but it eluded him, and now buzzed temptingly on a window-pane, out of his reach. It seemed that something serious must have happened, for Fido had never been left alone so long before. If he had known that the old man was conversing pleasantly with some fellow-citizens at the grocery store, and that the young one had his arm around a laughing girl in white, trying to teach her to walk, he would have been very indignant indeed. Several times, lately, Fido had noticed, the young man had gone out shortly after the old one went to the post-office. It would be, usually, half a day later when his master returned with a letter or two, or often with none. The young man took pains to get back before the old one did, which was well, for there should always be someone in a lawyer's office to receive clients and keep dogs from being lonely. [Sidenote: Pangs of Hunger] The pangs of a devastating hunger assailed Fido, which was not strange, for it was long past the hour when the old man usually took a bulky parcel out of his desk, spread a newspaper upon the floor, and bade Fido eat of cold potatoes, meat, and bread. There was, nearly always, a nice, juicy bone to beguile the tedium of the afternoon. Fido and the old man seldom went home to supper before half past five, and Fido would have been famished were it not for the comfort of the bone. He sniffed around the larger of the two desks. A tempting odour came from a drawer far above. He stood on his hind legs and reached up as far as he could, but the drawer was closed. So was every other drawer in the office, except one, and that was in the young man's desk. Probably there was nothing in it for a hungry dog--there never had been. [Sidenote: The Little Red Box] Still, it might be well to investigate. Fido laboriously climbed up on the chair and put his paws upon the edge of the open drawer. There was nothing in it but papers and a small, square, red box with a rubber band around it. Fido took the box in his mouth and jumped down. He pushed it with paws and nose over to his own particular corner, sniffing appreciatively meanwhile. It took much vigorous chewing to get the rubber band off and to make a hole in one corner of the box, out of which rolled a great number of small, cylindrical objects. They were not like anything Fido had ever eaten before, but hungry little dogs must take what they can find. So he gulped them all down but one. This one refused to be swallowed and Fido quickly repented of his rashness, for it was distinctly not good. He ate the rubber band and all but a little piece of the red box before the taste was quite gone out of his mouth. Even then, a drink of fresh, cool water would have been very acceptable, but there was nobody to care whether a little dog died of thirst or not. The bluebottle fly buzzed loudly upon the window-pane, but Fido no longer aspired to him. A vast weariness took the place of his former restlessness. He sat and blinked at his ill-assorted feet for some time, then dragged himself lazily toward his cushion in the corner. Before he reached it, he was so very sleepy that he lay down upon the floor. In less than five minutes, he was off to the canine dreamland, one paw still caressingly laid over the fragments of the little red box. * * * * * [Sidenote: The Judge Returns] When the Judge came in, an hour later, he was much surprised to find the office locked and the cards of three valued clients on the floor under the door. There had been four, but Fido had eaten the first one. Two of them were marked with the hour of the call. It indicated, plainly, to a logical mind, that Roger had left the office soon after he did, and had not returned. It was very strange. Fido slumbered on, though hitherto the sound of his master's step would awaken him to noisy and affectionate demonstrations. The Judge turned Fido over with a friendly foot, but there was no answer save a wide yawn. He brought the parcel of bread and meat and opened it, leaving it on the floor close by. Then he took a chicken bone and held it to the sleeper's nose, but Fido turned away as though from an annoying fly. As the dog had never before failed to take immediate interest in a chicken bone, the Judge was alarmed. He picked up the fragments of the little red box and wondered if anyone could have poisoned his pet. He brought fresh water, but Fido, hitherto possessed of an unquenchable thirst, failed to respond. When Roger came in, belated and breathless, he found his explanations coldly received. Whether or not Barbara North ever walked was evidently a matter of no particular concern to the Judge. It was also of no immediate importance that clients had come and found the office empty, even though one of them, presumably, had intended to settle an account of long standing. The vital question was simply this: what was the matter with Fido? Roger did not know. Though Fido's disdain of food and drink might be abnormal, his position on the floor and his deep breathing were quite natural. [Sidenote: An Inquiry] Then the fragments of the little red box were presented to Roger, and inquiry made as to the contents. Also, had Roger tried to poison the Judge's pet? Roger had not. The box had contained a prescription for lumbago which Doctor Conrad had given his mother. It was in the drawer in his desk. He might possibly have left the drawer open--probably had, as the box was gone. The Judge was deeply desirous of knowing why Mrs. Austin's lumbago cure should be kept in the office, within reach of unwary pets. After considerable hesitation, Roger explained. The owner of Fido was highly incensed. First, he condemned the entire procedure as "criminal carelessness," setting forth his argument in unparliamentary language. Then, remembering that Roger had not really loved Fido, he brought forth an unworthy motive, and accused the hapless young man of murderous intent. [Sidenote: The Judge Commands] Roger would kindly borrow the miniature express waggon which was the prized possession of the postmaster's small son, place the cushion in it, with its precious burden, and convey Fido, with all possible tenderness, to his other and larger cushion in the Judge's own bedroom. He would take the cold chicken, too, please, for if Fido ever wanted anything again in this world, it would probably be chicken. The Judge would follow as soon as he had written to his clients and expressed his regret that his clerk's numerous social duties did not permit of his giving much time to his business. And, the Judge added, as an afterthought, if Fido should die, it would not be necessary for Roger to return to the office. He wanted someone who could be trusted not to poison his dog while he was out. Roger was too much disturbed to be conscious of the ludicrous aspect he presented to the public eye as he went down the main thoroughfare of Riverdale, dragging the small cart which contained the slumbering Fido and his cushion. He did not even hear the pointed comments made by the young of both sexes whom he encountered on his interminable walk, and forgot to thank the postmaster for the loan of the cart when he returned it, empty save for a fragment of cold chicken and a faint, doggy smell. [Sidenote: On the Beach] For obvious reasons, he could not go to the office and he did not like to take his disturbing mood to Barbara. Besides, his mother, who now had long wakeful periods in the daytime, might see him and ask unpleasant questions. He went down to the beach, yearning for solitude, and settled himself in the shelter of a sand dune to meditate upon the unhappy events of the day. He did not realise that the sand dune belonged to Eloise, and that she was wont to sit there with Doctor Conrad, out of the wind, and safely screened from the argus-eyed rocking-chairs on the veranda. He was so preoccupied that he did not even hear the sound of their voices as they approached. Turning the corner quickly, they almost stumbled over him. "Upon my word," cried Eloise. "Sir Knight of the Dolorous Countenance, what has gone wrong?" "Nothing," answered Roger, miserably. "Anybody dead?" queried Allan, lazily stretching himself upon the sand. "Not yet, but somebody is dying." "Who?" demanded Eloise. "Barbara, or your mother? Who is it?" "Fido," said Roger hopelessly, staring out to sea. Allan laughed, but Eloise returned, kindly: "I didn't know you had a dog. I'm sorry." "He isn't mine," explained Roger; "I only wish he were. If he had been," he added, viciously, "he'd have died a violent death long ago." [Sidenote: Miss Wynne's Plans] Little by little, the whole story came out. Allan kept his face straight with difficulty, but Eloise was genuinely distressed. "Don't worry," she said, sympathetically. "If Fido dies and the Judge won't take you back, I can probably find an opening for you in town. Your office work will pay your expenses, so you can go to law school in the evenings and be ready for your examinations in the Spring." "Oh, Miss Wynne," cried Roger. "How good you are! I don't wonder Barbara calls you her Fairy Godmother." "Barbara is coming to town to spend the Winter with me," Eloise went on, happily. "She's never had a good time and I'm going to give her one. As soon as she's strong enough, and can walk well, I'm going to take her, bag and baggage. It's all I'm waiting here for." In a twinkling, Roger's despair was changed to something entirely different. "Oh," he cried, "I do hope Fido will die. Do you think there is any chance?" he asked, eagerly, of Allan. "I should think, from what you tell me," remarked Allan, judicially, "that Fido was nearly through with his earthly troubles. A dose of that size might easily keep any of us from worrying any longer about the price of meat and next month's rent." "Mother won't like it," said Roger, soberly. "She may not be willing for me to go." "She should be," returned Allan, "as you've saved her life at the expense of Fido's. When I go up to see Barbara this afternoon, I'll stop in and tell her." [Sidenote: Unexpected Call] Miss Mattie was awake, but yawning, when he knocked at her door. "There wasn't no call for you to come," she said, inhospitably; "the medicine ain't used up yet." "Let me see the box, please." She shuffled off to the kitchen cupboard and brought it to him. There were half a dozen flour-filled capsules in it. Allan observed that the druggist, in writing the directions on the cover, had failed to add the last two words. "Idiot," he said, under his breath. "I wrote, 'Take two every four hours until relieved.'" "I was relieved," explained Miss Mattie, "and I've had fine sleep ever since. It's wore off considerable in the last three days, though." Allan then told her, in vivid and powerful language, how the druggist's error might have had very serious results, had it not been for Roger's presence of mind in substituting the flour-filled capsules for the "searching medicine." He was surprised to find that Miss Mattie was ungrateful, and that she violently resented the imposition. [Sidenote: Notion of Economy] "Roger's just like his pa," she said, with the dull red rising in her cheeks. "He never had no notion of economy. When I'm takin' a dollar and twenty cents' worth of medicine, to keep it from bein' wasted, Roger goes and puts flour into the covers of it, and feeds the expensive medicine to Judge Bascom's Fido. He thinks more of that dog than he does of his sick mother." "My dear Mrs. Austin," said Allan, solemnly, "have you not heard the news?" "What news?" she demanded, bristling. "Little Fido is dying. He took all the medicine and has been asleep ever since. By morning, he will be dead." Miss Mattie's jaw dropped. "Would you mind tellin' me," she asked, suspiciously, "why you took it on yourself to give me medicine that would pizen a dog? I might have took it all at once, to save it. Once I was minded to." "Roger saved your life," said Allan, endeavouring to make his tone serious. "And because of it, he is about to lose his position. The Judge is so disturbed over Fido's approaching dissolution that he has told Roger never to come back any more. Unless we can find him a place in town, he has sacrificed his whole future to save his mother's life." "Where is Roger?" "I left him down on the beach, with Miss Wynne. I suppose he is still there." "When you see him," commanded Miss Mattie, with some asperity, "will you kindly send him home? It's no time for him to be gallivantin' around with girls, when his mother's been so near death." "I will," Allan assured her, reaching for his hat. "I hope you appreciate what he has done for you." [Sidenote: The Doctor Laughs] When he went down the road, his shoulders were shaking suspiciously. Miss Mattie was watching him through the lace curtains that glorified the parlour windows. "Seems as if he had St. Vitus's dance," she mused. "Wonder why he doesn't mix up some dog-pizen, and cure himself?" When he was sure that he was out of sight, Allan sat down on a convenient boulder at the side of the road, and gave himself up to unrestrained mirth. The medicine which was about to prove fatal to Fido would have caused only prolonged sleep if taken in small doses, at proper intervals, by an adult. "It's a wonder she didn't take 'em all at once," he thought. "And if she had--" He speculated, idly, upon the probable effect. His conscience pricked him slightly on account of the exaggeration in which he had mischievously indulged, but he told himself that Roger would be far better off in the city and his mother's consent would make his going much less difficult. He also realised that if Roger were there to amuse Barbara, Eloise might have more spare time than she would otherwise. He stopped long enough to give the druggist a bad quarter of an hour, and then went back to the beach. Eloise and Roger were where he had left them, and the boy's gloom was entirely gone. "Your mother wants you," he said, as he sat down on the other side of Eloise. "All right--I'll go right up. How did she take it?" "Very well. Just remember that you've saved her life, and you'll have no trouble." [Sidenote: Light-Hearted] When Roger went up the street, he was whistling, from sheer light-heartedness. Eloise had made so many plans for his future that he saw fame and fortune already within his reach. When he knocked, never having been allowed the freedom of a latch key, he noted that all the blinds in the house were closed and wondered whether his mother had gone to sleep again. After a suitable interval, she opened the door, clad in her best black silk, and portentously solemn. "Why, Mother, what's the matter?" "Come in," she whispered. "Doctor Conrad has just been tellin' me how near I come to death. Oh, my son," she cried, throwing her arms around his neck, "you have saved my life." [Sidenote: Two Greetings] It seemed to Roger like a paragraph torn from _The Metropolitan Weekly_, but he patted her back soothingly as she clung to him. Maternal outbursts of this sort were extremely rare. He remembered only one other greeting like this--the day he had been swimming in the river with three other small boys and had been brought home in a blanket, half drowned. "I suppose I shouldn't regret takin' dog-pizen, if it cured my back and give me the sleep I needed, but it was a dreadful narrow escape. And your takin' the medicine away from me and feedin' it to Fido was certainly clever, Roger. Every day you remind me more and more of your pa." "Thank you," answered Roger. He was struggling with various emotions and found speech almost impossible. "It's no more'n right," she resumed, "that, after having pizened Fido and lost you your place, that Doctor Conrad should stir himself around and get you a better place in the city, but I do hate to have you go, Roger. It'll be dreadful lonesome for me." "Cheer up, Mother; I haven't gone yet. The dog may get well." Miss Mattie shook her head sadly. "No, he won't," she sighed. "I took enough of that medicine to know how powerful it is, and Fido ain't got no chance. To-morrow I'll look over your things." An atmosphere of solemnity pervaded the house, and the evening was spent very quietly. Miss Mattie read her Bible, as on Sunday evenings when she did not go to church, and sternly refused to open _The Housewife's Companion_, which lay temptingly near her. [Sidenote: Nightmare] She went to bed early, and Roger soon followed her, having strangely lost his desire to read, and not daring to go to see Barbara more than once a day. His night was made hideous by visions of himself drawing the cart containing the slumbering Fido into the church where Eloise and Doctor Conrad were being married, while Judge Bascom at the house, was conducting Miss Mattie's funeral. In the morning, after breakfast, Roger seriously debated whether or not he should go down to the office. At last he tossed up a coin and muttered a faint imprecation as he picked it up. With his hat firmly on and his hands in his pockets, Roger fared forth, whistling determinedly. He did not want to go to the office, and he dreaded, exceedingly, his next meeting with the irascible Judge. As it happened, it was not necessary for him to go, for, at the corner of the street which led to the Judge's house, he met the postmaster's small son, laboriously dragging the fateful cart of yesterday. In it were all of Roger's books and other belongings, including an umbrella which he had loaned to the Judge on a rainy night and expected never to see again. [Sidenote: A Brief Message] The message was brief and very much to the point. Fido had died painlessly at four o'clock that morning. XIX The Dreams Come True [Sidenote: Gaining Strength] The hours Roger had taken from his work in the office had brought nothing but good to Barbara. She gained strength rapidly after she began to walk, and was soon able to dispense with the cane, though she could not walk easily, nor far. She tired quickly and was forced to rest often, but she went about the house slowly and even up and down the stairs. Aunt Miriam made no comment of any sort. She did not say she was glad Barbara was well after twenty-two years of helplessness, even though she had taken entire care of her, and must have felt greatly relieved when the burden was lifted. She went about her work as quietly as ever, and fulfilled all her household duties with mechanical precision. Spicy odours were wafted through the rooms, for Eloise had ordered enough jelly, sweet pickles, and preserves to supply a large family for two or three years. She had also bought quilts and rag rugs for all of her old-lady friends and taken the entire stock of candied orange peel for the afternoon teas which she expected to give during the Winter. Barbara was hard at work upon the dainty lingerie Eloise had planned, and found, by a curious anomaly, that when she did not work so hard, she was able to accomplish more. The needle flew more swiftly when her fingers did not ache and the stitches blur indistinguishably with the fibre of the fabric. When Roger was not there to help her, she divided her day, by the clock, into hours of work and quarter-hours of exercise and rest. She had been out of the gate twice, with Roger, and had walked up and down the road in front of the house, but, as yet, she had not gone beyond the little garden alone. [Sidenote: One Dark Cloud] Upon the fair horizon of the future was one dark cloud of dread which even Doctor Conrad's positive assurance had mitigated only for a little time. Barbara knew her father and his stern, uncompromising righteousness. When the bandages were taken off and he saw the faded walls and dingy furniture, the worn rugs, and the pitiful remnant of damask at his place at the table; when he realised that his daughter had deceived him ever since she could talk at all, he must inevitably despise her, even though he tried to hide it. Dimly, Barbara began to perceive the intangible price that is attached to the things of the spirit as well as to the material necessities of daily life. She was forced to surrender his love for her as the compensation for his sight, yet she was firmly resolved to keep, for him, the love that refused to reckon with the barrier of a grave, but triumphantly went past it to clasp the dead Beloved closer still. [Sidenote: A Vague Dream] Of late, she had been thinking much of her mother. Until Roger had found his father's letter, and she had received her own, upon her twenty-second birthday, she had felt no sense of loss. Constance had been a vague dream to her and little more, in spite of her father's grieving and her instinctive sympathy. With the letters, however, had come a change. Barbara felt a certain shadowy relationship and an indefinite bereavement. She wondered how her mother had looked, what she had worn, and even how she had dressed her hair. Since her father had gone to the hospital, she had wondered more than ever, but got no satisfaction when she had once asked Aunt Miriam. She finished the garment upon which she was working, threaded the narrow white ribbon into it, folded it in tissue paper and put it into the chest. It was the last of the second set and Eloise had ordered six. "Four more to do," thought Barbara. "I wonder whether she wants them all alike." The afternoon shadows had begun to lengthen, and it was Saturday. It was hardly worth while to begin a new piece of work before Monday morning, especially since she wanted to ask Eloise about a new pattern. Doctor Conrad was coming down for the weekend, and probably both of them would be there late in the afternoon, or on Sunday. "How glad he'll be," said Barbara, to herself. "He'll be surprised when he sees how well I can walk. And father--oh, if father could only come too." She was eager, in spite of her dread. [Sidenote: In the Attic] Simply for the sake of exercise, Barbara climbed the attic stairs and came down again. After she had rested, she tried it once more, but was so faint when she reached the top that she went into the attic and sat down in an old broken rocker. It was the only place in the house where she had not been since she could walk, and she rather enjoyed the novelty of it. A decrepit sofa, with the springs hanging from under it, was against the wall at one side, far back under the eaves. It was of solid mahogany and had not been bought by the searchers for antiques because its rehabilitation would be so expensive. That and the rocker in which Barbara sat were the only pieces of furniture remaining. There were several trunks, old-fashioned but little worn. One was Aunt Miriam's, one was her father's, and the others must have belonged to her dead mother. For the first time in her life, Barbara was curious about the trunks. [Sidenote: The Old Trunk] When she was quite rested, she went over to a small one which stood near the window, and opened it. A faint, musty odour greeted her, but there was no disconcerting flight of moths. Every woollen garment in the house had long ago been used by Aunt Miriam for rugs and braided mats. She had taken Constance's underwear for her own use when misfortune overtook them, and there was little else left. Barbara lifted from the trunk a gown of heavy white brocade, figured with violets in lavender and palest green. It was yellow and faded and the silver thread that ran through the pattern was tarnished so that it was almost black. The skirt had a long train and around the low-cut bodice was a deep fall of heavy Duchess lace, yellowed to the exquisite tint of old ivory. The short sleeves were trimmed with lace of the same pattern, but only half as wide. "Oh," said Barbara, aloud, "how lovely!" There was a petticoat of rustling silk, and a pair of dainty white slippers, yellowed, too, by the slow passage of the years. Their silver buckles were tarnished, but their high heels were as coquettish as ever. "What a little foot," thought Barbara. "I believe it was smaller than mine." She took off her low shoe, and, like Cinderella, tried on the slipper. She was much surprised to find that it fitted, though the high heels felt queer. Her own shoe was more comfortable, and so she changed again, though she had quite made up her mind to wear the slippers sometime. [Sidenote: Treasured Finery] In the trunk, too, she found a white bonnet that she tried on, but without satisfaction, as there was no mirror in the attic. This one trunk evidently contained the finery for which Miriam had not been able to find use. One by one, Barbara took out the garments, which were all of silk or linen--there was nothing there for the moths. The long bridal veil of rose point, that Barbara had sternly refused to sell, was yellow, too, but none the less lovely. There was a gold scent-bottle set with discoloured pearls, an amethyst brooch which no one would buy because it had three small gold tassels hanging from it, and a lace fan with tortoise-shell sticks, inlaid with mother-of-pearl. A thrifty woman at the hotel had once offered two dollars for the fan, but Barbara had kept it, as she was sure it was worth more. Down in the bottom of the trunk was an inlaid box that she did not remember having seen before. She slid back the cover and found a lace handkerchief, a broken cuff-button, a gold locket enamelled with black, a long fan-chain of gold, set with amethysts, a small gold-framed mirror evidently meant to be carried in a purse or hand-bag, a high shell comb inlaid with gold and set with amethysts, and ten of the dozen large, heavy gold hairpins which Ambrose North, in an extravagant mood, had ordered made for the shining golden braids of his girl-wife. [Sidenote: A Photograph] On the bottom of the box, face down, was a photograph. Barbara took it out, wonderingly, and started in amazement as her own face looked back at her. On the back was written, in the same clear hand as the letter: "For my son, or daughter. Constance North." Below was the date--just a month before Barbara was born. The heavy hair, in the picture, was braided and wound around the shapely head. The high comb, the same that Barbara had just taken out of the box, added a finishing touch. Around the slender neck and fair, smooth shoulders fell the Duchess lace that trimmed the brocade gown. The amethyst brooch, with two of the three tassels plainly showing, was pinned into the lace on the left side, half-way to the shoulder. But it was the face that interested Barbara most, as it was the counterpart of her own. There was the same broad, low forehead, the large, deep eyes with long lashes, the straight little nose, and the tender, girlish mouth with its short upper lip, and the same firm, round, dimpled chin. Even the expression was almost the same, but in Constance's deep eyes was a certain wistfulness that the faint smile of her mouth could not wholly deny. The woman who looked back at her daughter seemed strangely youthful. Barbara felt, in a way, as though she were the mother and Constance the child, for she was older, now, than her mother had been when she died. The years of helplessness and struggle had aged Barbara, too. [Sidenote: A Sweet Face] The slanting sunbeams of late afternoon came into the attic, but Barbara still studied the sweet face of the picture. Constance was made for love, and love had come when it was too late. What tenderness she was capable of; what toilsome journeys she would undertake without fear, if her heart bade her go! And what courage must have nerved her dimpled hands when she opened the grey, mysterious door of the Unknown! There was no hint of weakness in the face, but Constance had died rather than to take the chance of betraying the man who held her pledge. Barbara's young soul answered in passionate loyalty to the wistfulness, the hunger, and the unspoken appeal. "He shall never know, Mother, dear," she said aloud. "I promise you that he shall never know." [Sidenote: Like her Mother] The shadows grew longer, and, at length, Barbara put the picture down. If she had on the gown, and twisted her braids around her head, she would look like her mother even more than now. She had a fancy to try it--to go downstairs and see what Aunt Miriam would say when she came in. Her eyes sparkled with delight when she drew on the long white stockings of finest silk and put on the white slippers with the tarnished silver buckles. The gown was too long and a little too loose, but Barbara rejoiced in the faded brocade and in the rustle of the silk petticoat that cracked in several places when she put it on, the fabric was so frail. The ivory-tinted lace set off her shoulders beautifully, but she could only guess at the effect from the brief glimpses the tiny mirror gave her. She put on the amethyst brooch, hung the fan upon its chain and put it around her neck. Then she wound her braids around her head and fastened them securely with the gold hairpins. With the aid of the small-gold mirror, she put the comb in place, and loosened the soft hair on either side, so that it covered the tops of her ears. She walked back and forth a few times, the full length of the attic, looking back to admire the sweep of her train. Then she sat down upon the decrepit sofa, trying to fancy herself a stately lady of long ago. The room was very still, and, without knowing it, Barbara had wearied herself with her unaccustomed exertion. Her white woollen gown and soft low shoes lay in a little heap on the floor near the window. She must not forget to take them when she went down to look in the mirror. Presently, she stretched herself out upon the sofa, wondering, drowsily, whether her mother would have lain down to rest in that splendid brocade. She did not intend to sleep, but only to rest a little before going downstairs to surprise Aunt Miriam. Nevertheless, in a few minutes she was fast asleep and dreaming. * * * * * [Sidenote: The Home-Coming] Eloise went down to the three o'clock train to meet Allan, and was much surprised when Ambrose North came, too. His eyes were bandaged, but otherwise he seemed as well as ever. They offered to go home with him, but he refused, saying that he could go alone as well as he ever had. They strolled after him, however, keeping at a respectful distance, until they saw him enter the grey, weather-worn gate; then they turned back. "Is he all right, Allan?" asked Eloise, anxiously. "I hope so--indeed, I'm very sure he is. The operation turned out to be an extremely simple one, though it wasn't even dreamed of twenty years ago. Barbara's case was simple too,--it's all in the knowing how. She has made one of the quickest recoveries on record, owing to the fact that her body is almost that of a child. When you come down to the root of the matter, surgery is merely the job of a skilled mechanic." "But you'd be angry if anyone else said that." "Of course." "When do the bandages come off?" [Sidenote: A Case of Conscience] "I'm going up to-morrow. They'd have been off over a week ago, but Barbara insisted that she must see him first and ask him to forgive her for deceiving him. She thinks she's a criminal." "Dear little saint," said Eloise, softly. "I wish none of us ever did anything more wicked than that." "So do I, but there is an active remnant of a New-England conscience somewhere in Barbara. I'm not sure that the old man hasn't it, too." "Do you suppose, for a moment, that he won't forgive her?" "If he doesn't," returned Allan, concisely, "I'll break his ungrateful old neck. I hope she won't stir him up very much, though--he's got a bad heart." [Sidenote: Miriam's Welcome] Still, the old man showed no sign of weakness as he went briskly up the walk and knocked at his own door. When Miriam opened it, astonishment made her welcome almost inarticulate, for she had not expected him home so soon. He gave her the small black satchel that he carried, his coat and hat. "How is Barbara?" he asked, eagerly. "How is my little girl?" "Well enough," answered Miriam. "Is she asleep?" Miriam went to the stairs and called out: "Barbara! Oh, Barbara!" There was no answer. She started upstairs, but he called her back. "Don't wake her," he said. "Perhaps I can take her supper up to her." "Suit yourself," responded Miriam, shortly. She did not see fit to tell him that Barbara was up and could walk. Doctor Conrad could have told him, if he had wanted to--at any rate, it was not Miriam's affair. She bitterly resented the fact that he had not even shaken hands with her when he came home, after his long absence. She hung up his coat and hat, lighted the fire, as the room was cool, went out into the kitchen, and closed the door. The familiar atmosphere and the comfortable chair in which he sat brought him that peculiar peace of home which is one of the greatest gifts travel can bestow. Even the ticking of the clock came to his senses gratefully. Home at last, after all the pain, the dreary nights and days of acute loneliness, and only one more day to wait--perhaps. "To see again," he thought. "I am glad I came home first. To-morrow, if God is good to me, I shall see my baby--and the letter. I have dreamed so often that she could walk and I could see!" He took the two sheets of paper from his pocket and spread them out upon his knee. He moved his hands lovingly across the pages--the one written upon, the other blank. "She died loving me," he said to himself. "To-morrow I shall see it, in her own hand." [Sidenote: Why Not To-Day] Sunset flamed behind the hills and brought into the little room faint threads of gold and amethyst that wove a luminous tapestry with the dusk. The clock ticked steadily, and with every cheery tick brought nearer that dear To-Morrow of which he had dreamed so long. He speculated upon the difference made by the slow passage of a few hours. To-morrow, at this time, his bandages would be off--then why not to-day? The letter fell to the floor and he picked it up, one sheet at a time, fretfully. The bandage around his temples and the gauze and cotton held firmly against his eyes all at once grew intolerable. It was the last few miles to the weary traveller, the last hour that lay between the lover and his beloved, the darkness before the dawn. He had been very patient, but at last had come to the end. [Sidenote: He Opens his Eyes] If only the bandages were off! "If they were," he thought, "I need not open my eyes--I could keep them closed until to-morrow." He raised his hands and worked carefully at the surgical knots until the outer strip was loosened. He wound it slowly off, then cautiously removed the layers of cotton and gauze. He breathed a sigh of relief as he leaned back in his chair, with his eyes closed, determined to keep faith with the physicians, and, above all, with Doctor Conrad, who had been so very kind. There was no pain at all--only weakness. If the room were absolutely dark, perhaps he might open his eyes for a moment or two. Why should to-morrow be so different from to-day? The letter was in his hands--that dear letter which said, "I have loved him, I love him still, and have never loved him more than I do to-day." The temptation worked subtly in his mind as strong wine might in his blood. Perhaps, after all, he could not see--the doctors had not given him a positive promise. The fear made him faint, then surging hope and infinite longing merged into perfect belief--and trust. Unable to endure the strain of waiting longer, he opened his eyes, and as swiftly closed them again. "I can see," he whispered, shrilly. "Oh, I can see!" The blood beat hard in his pulses. He waited, wisely, until he was calm, then opened his eyes once more. The room was not dark, but was filled with the soft, golden glow of sunset--a light that illumined and, strangely, brought no pain. Objects long unfamiliar save by touch loomed large and dark before him. Remembered colours came back, mellowed by the half-light. Distances readjusted themselves and perspectives appeared in the transparent mist that seemed to veil everything. He closed his eyes, and said, aloud: "I can see! Oh, I can see!" [Sidenote: Reading the Letter] Little by little the mist disappeared and objects became clear. The velvety softness of the last light lay kindly upon the dingy room. When he tried to read the letter the words danced on the page. Trembling, he rose and took it over to the window, where the light was stronger. As he stood there, with his back to the door, Miriam, unheard, came into the room. The bandages on the floor, the eagerness in every line of his body as he stood at the window, and the letter in his hand, gave her, in a single instant, all the information she needed. Her heart beat high with wild hope--the hour of her vengeance had come at last. She feared he would not be able to read it. Then she remembered the yellowed page on which the writing stood out as clearly as though it had been large print. If he could see at all, he could see that. Little by little, sustained and supported by his immeasurable longing, the man at the window spelled out the words, in an eager whisper: "You who have loved me since the beginning of time--will understand and forgive me--for what I do to-day. I do it because I am not strong enough--to go on--and do my duty--by those who need me." Miriam nodded with satisfaction. At last he knew why Constance had taken her own life. "If there should be--meeting--past the grave--some day you and I--shall come together again--with no barrier between us." He put his hand to his forehead as though he did not quite understand, but hurried on to the next sentence, for his eyes were failing under the strain. "I take with me--the knowledge of your love--which has strengthened--and sustained me--since the day--we first met--and must make--even a grave--warm and sweet." [Sidenote: Radiance of Soul] The light in the room seemed to Miriam to be not wholly of the golden sunset. Some radiance of soul must have made that clear soft light which veiled but did not hide. It was sunset, and yet the light was that of a Summer afternoon. "And remember this--dead though I am--I love you still--you--and my little lame baby--who needs me so--and whom--I must leave--because I am not strong--enough to stay. Through life--and in death--and eternally yours--Constance." There was a tense, unbearable silence. Miriam moistened her parched lips and chafed her cold hands. "At last," she thought. "At last." [Sidenote: The Assurance] "She died loving me," said Ambrose North, in a shrill whisper. His eyes were closed again, for the strain had hurt--terribly. Dimly, he remembered the other letter. This was not the same, but the other had been to Barbara, and not to him. He did not stop to wonder how it came to be in his pocket. It sufficed that some Angel of God, working through devious ways and long years, had given him at last, face to face, the assurance he had hungered for since the day Constance died. In a blinding instant, Miriam remembered that no names had been mentioned in the letter. He had made a mistake--but she could set him right. Constance should not triumph again, even in an hour like this. Ambrose North turned back into the shadow, fearing to face the window. The woman cowering in the corner advanced steadily to meet him. He saw her, vaguely, when his eyes became accustomed to the change of lights. "Miriam!" he cried, transfigured by joy. "She died loving me! I have it here. It was only because she was not strong--she was ill, and she never let us know." He held forth the letter with a shaking hand. "She--" began Miriam. "She died loving me!" he cried. "Oh, Miriam, can you not see? I have it here." His voice rang through the house like some far silver bugle chanting triumph over a field of the slain. "She died loving me!" * * * * * [Sidenote: Triumphant Cry] Barbara had already wakened and she sat up, rubbing her eyes. The attic was almost dark. She went downstairs hurriedly, forgetting her borrowed finery until her long train caught on a projecting splinter and had to be loosened. When she reached her own door she started toward her mirror, anxious to see how she looked, but that triumphant cry from the room below made her heart stand still. White as death and strangely fearful, she went down and into the living-room, where the last light deepened the shadows and lay lovingly upon her father's illumined face. Barbara smiled and went toward him, with her hands outstretched in welcome. Miriam shrank back into the farthest shadows, shaking as though she had seen a ghost. There was an instant's tense silence. All the forces of life and love seemed suddenly to have concentrated into the space of a single heart-beat. Then the old man spoke. "Constance," he said, unsteadily, "have you come back, Beloved? It has been so long!" Radiant with beauty no woman had ever worn before, Barbara went to him, still smiling, and the old man's arms closed hungrily about her. "I dreamed you were dead," he sobbed, "but I knew you died loving me. Where is our baby, Constance? Where is my Flower of the Dusk?" [Sidenote: Burden of Joy] Even as he spoke, the overburdened heart failed beneath its burden of joy. He staggered and would have fallen, had not Miriam caught him in her strong arms. Together, they helped him to the couch, where he lay down, breathing with great difficulty. "Constance, darling," he gasped, feebly, "where is our baby? I want Barbara." For the sake of the dead and the living, Barbara supremely put self aside. "I do not know," she whispered, "just where Barbara is. Am I not enough?" "Enough for earth," he breathed in answer, "and--for--heaven--too. Kiss me--Constance--just once--dear--before----" [Sidenote: The Passing] Barbara bent down. He lifted his shaking hands caressingly to the splendid crown of golden hair, the smooth, fair cheeks, the perfect neck and shoulders, and died, enraptured, with her kiss upon his lips. XX Pardon [Sidenote: The Burial Service] Crushed and almost broken-hearted, Barbara sat in the dining-room. The air was heavy with the overpowering scent of tuberoses. From the room beyond came the solemn words of the burial service: "I am the resurrection and the life. He that believeth on me, though he were dead, yet shall he live." The words beat unbearably upon her ears. The walls of the room moved as though they were of fabric, stirred by winds of hell. The floor undulated beneath her feet and black mists blinded her. Her hands were so cold that she scarcely felt the friendly, human touch on either side of her chair. Roger held one of her cold little hands in both his own, yearning to share her grief, to divide it in some way; even to bear it for her. On the other side was Doctor Conrad, profoundly moved. His science had not yet obliterated his human instincts and he was neither ashamed of the mist in his eyes nor of the painful throbbing of his heart. His fingers were upon Barbara's pulse, where the lifetide moved so slowly that he could barely feel it. On the other side of the room, alien and apart, as always, sat Miriam. She wore her best black gown, but her face was inscrutable. Perhaps the lines were more sharply cut, perhaps the rough, red hands moved more nervously than usual, and perhaps the deep-set black eyes burned more fiercely, but no one noticed--or cared. [Sidenote: The Minister] The deep voice in the room beyond was vibrant with tenderness. The man who stood near Ambrose North as he lay in his last sleep had been summoned from town by Eloise. He did not make the occasion an excuse for presenting his own particular doctrine, bolstered up by argument, nor did he bid his hearers rejoice and be glad. He admitted, at the beginning, that sorrow lay heavily upon the hearts of those who loved Ambrose North and did not say that God was chastening them for their own good. He spoke of Life as the rainbow that brilliantly spans two mysterious silences, one of which is dawn and the other sunset. This flaming arc must end, as it begins, in pain, but, past the silence, and, perhaps, in even greater mystery, the circle must somewhere become complete and round back to a new birth. Could not the God who ordained the beginning be safely trusted with the end? Forgetting the grey mists of dawn in which the rainbow began, should we deny the inevitable night when the arc bends down at the other end of the world? Having seen so much of the perfect curve, could we not believe in the circle? And should we not remember that the rainbow itself was a signal and a promise that there should be no more sea? Even so, was not this mortal life of ours, tempered as it is by sorrow and tears, a further promise that, when the circle was completed, there should be no more death? [Sidenote: God's Love] The deep voice went on, even more tenderly, to speak of God; not of His power, but of His purpose, not of His justice, but His forgiveness, not of His vengeance, but of His love. A love so vast and far-reaching that there is no place where it is not; it enfolds not only our little world, poised in infinite space like a mote in a sunbeam, but all the shining, rolling worlds beyond. Every star that rises within our sight and all the million stars beyond, in misty distances so great as to be incomprehensible, are guided and surrounded by this same love. It is impossible to conceive of a place where it is not--even in the midst of pain, poverty, suffering, and death, God's love is there also. The minister pleaded with those who listened to him to lean wholly upon this all-sustaining, all-forgiving love; to believe that it sheltered both the living and the dead, and to trust, simply, as a little child. [Sidenote: At the Close of the Service] In the stillness that followed, Eloise went to the piano. The worn strings answered softly as her fingers touched the keys. In her full, low contralto she sang, to an exquisite melody: "When I am dead, my dearest, Sing no sad songs for me; Plant thou no roses at my head, Nor shady cypress tree; Be the green grass above me With showers and dewdrops wet; And if thou wilt, remember, And if thou wilt, forget. "I shall not see the shadows, I shall not feel the rain; I shall not hear the nightingale Sing on, as if in pain: And dreaming through the twilight That doth not rise nor set, Haply I may remember, And haply may forget." The deep, manly voice followed with a benediction, then the little group of neighbours and friends went out with hushed and reverent step, into the golden Autumn afternoon. Miriam came in, to all outward appearance wholly unmoved. She stood by him for a moment, then turned away. Eloise closed the door and Roger and Allan brought Barbara in. She bent down to her father, who lay so quietly, with a smile of heavenly peace upon his lips, and her tears rained upon his face. "Good-bye, dear Daddy," she sobbed. "It is Barbara who kisses you now." * * * * * When Ambrose North went out of his door for the last time, on his way to rest beside his beloved Constance until God should summon them both, Roger stayed behind, with Barbara. Doctor Conrad had said, positively, that she must not go, and, as always, she obeyed. The boy's heart was too full for words. He still kept her cold little hand in his. "There isn't anything I can say or do, is there, Barbara, dear?" [Sidenote: The Pity of It] "No," she sobbed. "That is the pity of it. There is never anything to be said or done." "I wish I could take it from you and bear it for you," he said, simply. "Some way, we seem to belong together, you and I." They sat in silence until the others came back. Eloise came straight to Barbara and put her strong young arms around the frail, bent little figure. "Will you come with me, dear?" she asked. "We can get a carriage easily and I'd love to have you with me. Will you come?" For a moment, Barbara hesitated. "No," she said, "I must stay here. I've got to live right on here, and I might as well begin to-night." Allan took from his pocket several small, round white tablets, and gave them to Barbara. "Two just before going to bed," he said. "And if you're the same brave girl that you've been ever since I've known you, you'll have your bearings again in a short time." [Sidenote: By the Open Fire] Roger stayed to supper, but none of them made more than a pretence of eating. The odour of tuberoses still pervaded the house and brought, inevitably, the thought of death. Afterward, Barbara sat by the open fire with one hand lying listlessly in Roger's warm, understanding clasp. In the kitchen, Miriam vigorously washed the few dishes. She had put away the fine china, the solid silver knife and fork, the remnant of table damask, and the Satsuma cup. "Shall I read to you, Barbara?" asked Roger. "No," she answered, wearily. "I couldn't listen to-night." The hours dragged on. Miriam sat in the dining-room alone, by the light of one candle, remorsefully, after many years, face to face with herself. She wondered what Constance would do to her now, when she went to bed and fearfully closed her eyes. She determined to cheat Constance by sitting up all night, and then realised that by doing so she would only postpone the inevitable reckoning. Miriam felt that a reckoning was due somewhere, on earth, or in heaven, or in hell. Mysterious balances must be made before things were right, and her endeavours to get what she had conceived to be her own just due had all failed. She wondered why. Constance had wronged her and she was entitled to pay Constance back in her own coin. But the opportunity had been taken out of her hands, every time. Even at the last, her subtle revenge had been transmuted into further glory for Constance. Why? The answer flashed upon her like words of fire--"_Vengeance is mine; I will repay._" Then, suddenly, from some unknown source, the need of confession came pitilessly upon her soul. Her lined face blanched in the candle-light and her worn, nervous hands clutched fearfully at the arm of her chair. [Sidenote: The Still Small Voice] "Confess," she repeated to herself scornfully as though in answer to some imperative summons. "To whom?" There was no answer, but, in her heart, Miriam knew. Only one of the blood was left and to that one, if possible, payment must be made. And if anything was due her, either from the dead or the living, it must come to her through Barbara. Miriam laughed shrilly and then bit her lips, thinking the others might hear. Roger heard--and wondered--but said nothing. After he went home, Barbara still sat by the fire, in that surcease which comes when one is unable to sustain grief longer and it steps aside, to wait a little, before taking a fresh hold. She could wonder now about the letter, in her mother's writing, that she had picked up from the floor, and which her father had found, and very possibly read. She hesitated to ask Miriam anything concerning either her father or her mother. [Sidenote: Miriam's Confession] But, while she sat there, Miriam came into the room, urged by goading impulses without number and one insupportable need. She stood near Barbara for several minutes without speaking; then she began, huskily, "Barbara----" The girl turned, wearily. "Yes?" "I've got something to say and I don't know but what to-night is as good a time as any. Neither of us are likely to sleep much." Barbara did not answer. "I hated your mother," said Miriam, passionately. "I always hated her." "I guessed that," answered Barbara, with a sigh. "Your father was in love with me when she came from school, with her doll-face and pretty ways. She took him away from me. He never looked at me after he saw her. I had to stand by and see it, help her with her pretty clothes, and even be maid of honour at the wedding. It was hard, but I did it. "She loved him, in a way, but it wasn't much of a way. She liked the fine clothes and the trinkets he gave her, but, after he went blind, she could hardly tolerate him. Lots of times, she would have been downright cruel to him if I hadn't made her do differently. "The first time they came here for the Summer, she met Laurence Austin, Roger's father, and it was love at first sight on both sides. They used to see each other every day either here or out somewhere. After you were born, the first place she went was down to the shore to meet him. I know, for I followed. "When your father asked where she was, I lied to him, not only then, but many times. I wasn't screening her--I was shielding him. It went on for over a year, then she took the laudanum. She left four notes--one to me, one to your father, one to you, and one to Laurence Austin. I never delivered that, even though she haunted me almost every night for five years. After he died, she still haunted me, but it was less often, and different. "When you sent me into your father's room after that letter he had in his pocket, I took time to read it. She said, there, that she didn't trust me, and that I had always loved your father. It was true enough, but I didn't know she knew it. "After you took the letter out, I put in the one to Laurence Austin. I'd opened it and read it some little time back. I thought it was time he knew her as she was, and I never thought about no name being mentioned in it. "When he tore off the bandages, he read that letter, and never knew that it wasn't meant for him. Then, when you came in in that old dress of your mother's, he thought it was her come back to him, and never knew any different." There was a long pause. "Well?" said Barbara, wearily. It did not seem as if anything mattered. "I just want you to know that I've hated your mother all my life, ever since she came home from school. I've hated you because you look like her. I've hated your father because he talked so of her all the time, and hated myself for loving him. I've hated everybody, but I've done my duty, as far as I know. I've scrubbed and slaved and taken care of you and your father, and done the best I could. "When I put that letter into his pocket, I intended for him to know that Constance was in love with another man. I'd have read it to him long ago if I'd had any idea he'd believe me. When he thought it was for him, I was just on the verge of telling him different when you came in and stopped me. You looked so much like your mother I thought Constance had taken to walking down here daytimes instead of back and forth in my room at night. "I suppose," Miriam went on, in a strange tone, "that I've killed him--that there's murder on my hands as well as hate in my heart. I suppose you'll want to make some different arrangements now--you won't want to go on living with me after I've killed your father." [Sidenote: A Wonderful Joy] "Aunt Miriam," said Barbara, calmly, "I've known for a long time almost everything you've told me, but I didn't know how father got the letter. I thought he must have found it somewhere in the desk or in his own room, or even in the attic. You didn't kill him any more than I did, by coming into the room in mother's gown. What he really died of was a great, wonderful joy that suddenly broke a heart too weak to hold it. And, even though I've wanted my father to see me, all my life long, I'd rather have had it as it was, and he would, too. I'm sure of that. "He told me once the three things he most wanted to see in the world were mother's letter, saying that she loved him, then mother herself, and, last of all, me. And for a long time his dearest dream has been that I could walk and he could see. So when, in the space of five or ten minutes, all the dreams came true, his heart failed." "But," Miriam persisted, "I meant to do him harm." Her burning eyes were keenly fixed upon Barbara's face. "Sometimes," answered the girl, gently, "I think that right must come from trying to do wrong, to make up for the countless times wrong comes from trying to do right. Father could not have had greater joy, even in heaven, than you and I gave him at the last, neither of us meaning to do it." [Sidenote: Human Sympathy and Love] The stern barrier that had reared itself between Miriam and her kind suddenly crumbled and fell. Warm tides of human sympathy and love came into her numb heart and ice-bound soul. The lines in her face relaxed, her hands ceased to tremble, and her burning eyes softened with the mist of tears. Her mouth quivered as she said words she had not even dreamed of saying for more than a quarter of a century: "Will you--can you--forgive me?" All that she needed from the dead and all they could have given her came generously from Barbara. She sprang to her feet and threw her arms around Miriam's neck. "Oh, Aunty! Aunty!" she cried, "indeed I do, not only for myself, but for father and mother, too. We don't forgive enough, we don't love enough, we're not kind enough, and that's all that's wrong with the world. There isn't time enough for bitterness--the end comes too soon." [Sidenote: At Peace] Miriam went upstairs, strangely uplifted, strangely at peace. She was no longer alien and apart, but one with the world. She had a sense of universal kinship--almost of brotherhood. That night she slept, for the first time in more than twenty years, without the fear of Constance. And Constance, who was more sinned against than sinning, and whose faithful old husband had that day lain down, in joy and triumph, to rest beside her in the churchyard, came no more. XXI The Perils of the City "Roger," remarked Miss Mattie, laying aside her paper, "I don't know as I'm in favour of havin' you go to the city. Can't you get the Judge another dog?" "Why not, Mother?" asked Roger, ignoring her question. "Because it seems to me, from all I've been readin' and hearin' lately, that the city ain't a proper place for a young person. Take that minister, now, that those folks brought down for Ambrose North's funeral. I never heard anything like it in all my life. You was there and you heard what he said, so there ain't no need of dwellin' on it, but it wasn't what I'm accustomed to in the way of funerals." Miss Mattie's militant hairpins bristled as she spoke. "I thought it was all right, Mother. What was wrong with it?" [Sidenote: Everything Wrong] "Wrong!" repeated Miss Mattie, in astonishment. "Everything was wrong with it! Ambrose North wasn't a church-member and he never went more'n once or twice that I know of, even after the Lord chastened him with blindness for not goin'. There was no power to the sermon and no cryin' except Barbara and that Miss Wynne that sang that outlandish piece instead of a hymn. "Why, Roger, I was to a funeral once over to the Ridge where the corpse was an unbaptized infant, and you ought to have heard that preacher describin' the abode of the lost! The child's mother fainted dead away and had to be carried out of the church, it was that powerful and movin'. That was somethin' like!" It was in Roger's mind to say he was glad that the minister had not made Barbara faint, but he wisely kept silent. [Sidenote: Life in the City] "That's only one thing," Miss Mattie went on. "What with religion bein' in that condition in the city, and the life folks live there, I don't think it's any fit place for a person that ain't strong in the faith, and you know you ain't, Roger. You take after your pa. "I was readin' in _The Metropolitan Weekly_ only last week a story about a lovely young orphan that was caught one night by a rejected suitor and tied to the railroad track. Just as the train was goin' to run over her, the man she wanted to marry come along on the dead run with a knife and cut her bonds. She got off the track just as the night express come around the curve, goin' ninety-five miles an hour. [Sidenote: Miss Mattie's Fears] "This man says to her, 'Genevieve, will you come to me now, and let me put you out of this dread villain's power forever?' Then he opened his arms and the beautiful Genevieve fled to them as to some ark of safety and laid her pale and weary face upon his lovin' and forgivin' heart. That's the exact endin' of it, and I must say it's written beautiful, but when I wake up in the night and think about it, I get scared to have you go. "You ain't so bad lookin', Roger, and you're gettin' to the age where you might be expected to take notice, and what if some designing female should tie you to the railroad track? I declare, it makes me nervous to think of it." Roger did not like to shake his mother's faith in _The Metropolitan Weekly_, but he longed to set her fears at rest. "Those things aren't true, Mother," he said, kindly. "They not only haven't happened, but they couldn't happen--it's impossible." "Roger, what do you mean by sayin' such things. Of course it's true, or it wouldn't be in the paper. Ain't it right there in print, as plain as the nose on your face? You can see for yourself. I hope studyin' law ain't goin' to make an infidel of you." "I don't think it will," temporised Roger. "I'll keep a close watch for designing females, and will avoid railroad tracks at night." Miss Mattie shook her head doubtfully. "That ain't a goin' to do no good, Roger, if they once get set after you. I've noticed that the villain always triumphs." "But only for a little while, Mother. Surely you must have seen that?" [Sidenote: The Villain Foiled] She settled her steel-bowed spectacles firmly on the wart and gazed at him. "I believe you're right," she said, after a few moments of reflection. "I can't recall no story now where the villain was not foiled at last. Let me see--there was _Lovely Lulu, or the Doctor's Darling_, and _Margaret Merriman, or the Maiden's Mad Marriage_, and _True Gold, or Pretty Crystal's Love_, and _The American Countess, or Hearts Aflame_, and this one I was just speakin' of, _Genevieve Carleton, or the Brakeman's Bride_. In every one of 'em, the villain got his just deserts, though sometimes they was disjointed owin' to the story bein' broke off at the most interestin' point and continued the followin' week." "Well, if the villain is always foiled, you're surely not afraid, are you?" "I don't know's I'm afraid in the long run, but I don't like to have you go through such things and be exposed to the temptations of a great city." "Why don't you come with me, Mother, and keep house for me? We can find a little flat somewhere, and----" "What on earth is that?" [Sidenote: Apartments and Flats] "I've never been in one myself, but Miss Wynne said that, if you wanted to come, she would find us a flat, or an apartment." "What's the difference between a flat and an apartment?" "That's what I asked her. She said it was just the rent. You pay more for an apartment than you do for a flat." "I wouldn't want anything I had to pay more for," observed Miss Mattie, stroking her chin thoughtfully. "You ain't told me what a flat is." "A few rooms all on one floor, like a cottage. It's like several cottages, all under one roof." "What do they want to cover the cottages with a roof for? Don't they want light and air?" "You don't understand, Mother. Suppose that our house here was an apartment house. The stairs would be shut off from these rooms and the hall would be accessible from the street. Instead of having three rooms upstairs, there might be six--one of them a kitchen and the others living-rooms and bedrooms. Don't you see?" "You mean a kitchen on the same floor with the bedrooms?" "Yes, all the rooms on one floor." "Just as if an earthquake was to jolt off the top of the house and shake all the bedrooms down here?" "Something like that." "Well, then," said Miss Mattie, firmly, "all I've got to say is that it ain't decent. Think of people sleepin' just off kitchens and washin' their faces and hands in the sink." "I think some of them must be very nice, Mother. Miss Wynne expects to live in an apartment after she is married and she has a little one of her own now. If you'll come with me we'll find some place that you'll like. I don't want to leave you alone here." [Sidenote: Under One Roof] "No," she answered, after due deliberation, "I reckon I'll stay here. You can't transplant an old tree and you can't take a woman who has lived all her life in a house and put her in a place where there are several cottages all under one roof with bedrooms off of kitchens and folks washin' in the sinks. Miss Wynne can do it if she likes, but I was brought up different." "I'm afraid you'll be lonesome." "I don't know why I should be any more lonesome than I always have been. All I see of you is at meals and while you're readin' nights. You're just like your pa. If I propped up a book by the lamp, it would be just as sociable as it is to have you settin' here. Readin' is a good thing in its place and I enjoy it myself, but sometimes it's pleasant to hear the human voice sayin' somethin' besides 'What?' and 'Yes' and 'All right' and 'Is supper ready?' [Sidenote: The Blue Hair Ribbon] "I've been lookin' over your things to-day and gettin' 'em ready. The moths has ate your Winter flannels and you'll have to get more. I've mended your coat linin's and sewed on buttons, and darned and patched, and I've took Barbara North's blue hair ribbon back to her--the one you found some place and had in your pocket. You mustn't be careless about those things, Roger--she might think you meant to steal it." "What did Barbara say?" he stammered. The high colour had mounted to his temples. "She didn't know what to say at first, but she recognised it as her hair ribbon. I told her you hadn't meant to steal it--that you'd just found it somewheres and had forgot to give it to her, and it was all right. She laughed some, but it was a funny laugh. You must be careful, Roger--you won't always have your mother to get you out of scrapes." Roger wondered if the knot of blue ribbon that had so strangely gone back to Barbara had, by any chance, carried to her its intangible freight of dreams and kisses, with a boyish tear or two, of which he had the grace not to be ashamed. "Your pa was in the habit of annexin' female belongin's, though the Lord knows where he ever got 'em. I suppose he picked 'em up on the street--he was so dreadful absent-minded. He was systematic about 'em in a way, though. After he died, I found 'em all put away most careful in a box--a handkerchief and one kid glove, and a piece of ribbon about like the one I took back to Barbara. He was flighty sometimes: constant devotion to readin' had unsettled his mind. "That brings me to what I wanted to say when I first started out. I don't want you should load up your trunk with your pa's books to the exclusion of your clothes, and I don't want you to spend your evenin's readin'." "I'm not apt to read very much, Mother, if I work in an office in the daytime and go to law school at night." [Sidenote: Ten Books Only] "That's so, too, but there's Sundays. You can take any ten of your pa's books that you like, but no more. I'll keep the rest here against the time the train is blocked and the mails don't come through. I may get a taste for your pa's books myself." Roger did not think it likely, but he was too wise to say so. "And I didn't tell you this before, but I've made it my business to go and see the Judge and tell him how you saved my life at the expense of Fido's. I don't know when I've seen a man so mad. I was goin' to suggest that we get him another dog from some place, and land sakes! he clean drove it out of my mind. "I don't know how you've stood it, bein' there in the office with him, and I told him so. He's got a red-headed boy from the Ridge in there now, and I think maybe the Judge will get what's comin' to him before he gets through. I've learned not to trifle with anybody what has red hair, but seemin'ly the Judge ain't. It takes some folks a long time to learn. "Barbara's goin' to the city, too, to spend the Winter with that Miss Wynne in the cottage that's under the same roof with other cottages and the bedrooms off the kitchen. I don't know how Barbara'll take to washin' in the sink, when she's always had that rose-sprigged bowl and pitcher of her ma's, but it's her business, not mine, and if she wants to go, she can. [Sidenote: "Me and Miriam"] "Me and Miriam'll set together evenings and keep each other from bein' lonesome. She ain't much more company than a cow, as far as talkin' goes, but there's a feelin,' some way, about another person bein' in the house, when the wind gets to howlin' down the chimney. We may arrange to have supper together, once in a while, and in case of severe weather, put the two fires goin' in one house, which ever's the warmest. "I don't know what we shall do, for we ain't talked it over much yet, but with church twice on Sunday and prayer-meetin' Wednesday evenings, and the sewin' circle on Friday, and two New York papers every week, and Miriam, and all your pa's books to prop up against the lamp, I don't reckon I'll get so dreadful lonesome. I've thought some of gettin' myself a cat. There's somethin' mighty comfortable and heartenin' about a cup of hot tea and the sound of purrin' close by. And on the Spring excursion to the city, I reckon I'll come up and see you, if I don't have no more pain in my back." [Sidenote: Dr. Conrad's Automobile] "I'd love to have you come, Mother, and I'd do all I could to give you a good time. I know the others would, too. Doctor Conrad has an automobile and----" Miss Mattie became deeply concerned. "Is he treatin' himself for it?" she demanded. "I don't think so," answered Roger, choking back a laugh. "It beats all," mused Miss Mattie. "They say the shoemaker's children never have shoes, and it seems that doctors have diseases just like other folks. I disremember of havin' heard of this, but I know from my own experience that a disease with only one word to it can be dreadful painful. Is it catchin'?" "Not with full speed on," replied Roger. "An automobile is very hard to catch." "Well, see that you don't take it," cautioned Miss Mattie. The first part of his answer was obscure, but she was not one to pause over an uninteresting detail. "You've warned me about almost everything now, Mother," he said, smiling. "Is there anything else?" "Nothing but matrimony, and that's included under the head of designing females. I shouldn't want you to get married." "Why not?" [Sidenote: Welded Souls] "I don't know as I could tell you just why, only it seems to me that a person is just as well off without it. I've been thinking of it a good deal since I've had these New York papers and read so much about two souls bein' welded into one. My soul wasn't never welded with your pa's, nor his with mine, as I know of. "Marriage wasn't so dreadful different from livin' at home. It reminded me of the Summer ma took a boarder, your pa required so much waitin' on. And when you came, I had a baby to take care of besides. If I was welded I never noticed it--I was too busy." Roger's heart softened into unspeakable pity. In missing the "welding," Miss Mattie had missed the best that life has to give. Somewhere, doubtless, the man existed who could have stirred the woman's soul beneath the surface shallows and set the sordid tasks of daily living in tune with the music that sways the world. [Sidenote: "Un-marriage"] "There's a good deal in the papers about un-marriage, too," resumed Miss Mattie, "and I can't understand it. When you've stood before the altar and said 'till death do us part,' I don't see how another man, who ain't even a minister, can undo it and let you have another chance at it. Maybe you do, bein' as you're up in law, but I don't. "It looks to me as if the laws were wrong or else the marriage ceremony ought to be written different. If a man said, 'I take thee to be my wedded wife, to love and to cherish until I see somebody else I like better,' I could understand the un-marriage, but I can't now. When you get to be a power in the law, Roger, I think you should try to get that fixed. I never was welded, but after I'd given my word, I stuck to it, even though your pa was dreadful aggravatin' sometimes. He didn't mean to be, but he was. I guess it's the nature of men folks." Deeply moved, Roger went over and kissed her smooth cheek. "Have I been aggravating, Mother?" Miss Mattie's eyes grew misty. She took off her spectacles and wiped them briskly on one corner of the table-cover. "No more'n was natural, I guess," she answered. "You've been a good boy, Roger, and I want you should be a good man. When you get away from home, where your mother can't look after you, just remember that she expects you to be good, like your pa. He might have been aggravatin', but he wasn't wicked." [Sidenote: Remember] All the best part of the boy's nature rose in answer, and the mist came into his eyes, too. "I'll remember, Mother, and you shall never be disappointed in me--I promise you that." XXII Autumn Leaves [Sidenote: Autumn Glory] Summer had gone long ago, but the sweetness of her passing yet lay upon the land and sea. The hills were glorious with a pageantry of scarlet and gold where, in the midnight silences, the soul of the woods had flamed in answer to the far, mysterious bugles of the frost. Bloom was on the grapes in the vineyard, and fairy lace, of cobweb fineness, had been hung by the secret spinners from stem to stem of the purple clusters and across bits of stubble in the field. From the blue sea, now and then, came the breath of Winter, though Autumn lingered on the shore. Many of the people at the hotel had gone back to town, feeling the imperious call of the city with the first keen wind. Eloise, with a few others, waited. She expected to stay until Barbara was strong enough to go with her. But Barbara's strength was coming very slowly now. She grieved for her father, and the grieving kept her back. Allan came down once a fortnight to spend Sunday with Eloise and to look after Barbara, though he realised that Barbara was, in a way, beyond his reach. [Sidenote: What We Need] "She doesn't need medicine," he said, to Eloise. "She is perfectly well, physically, though of course her strength is limited and will be for some time to come. What she needs is happiness." "That is what we all need," answered Eloise. Allan flashed a quick glance at her. "Even I," he said, in a different tone, "but I must wait for mine." "We all wait for things," she laughed, but the lovely colour had mounted to the roots of her hair that waved so softly back from her low forehead. "When, dear?" insisted Allan, possessing himself of her hand. "I promised once," she answered. "When the colour is all gone from the hills and the last leaves have fallen, then I'll come." "You're not counting the oaks?" he asked, half fearfully. "Sometimes the oak leaves stay on all Winter, you know. And evergreens are ruled out, aren't they?" "Certainly. We won't count the oaks or the Christmas trees. Long before Santa Claus comes, I'll be a sedate matron instead of a flyaway, frivolous spinster." "For the first time since I grew up," remarked Allan, with evident sincerity, "I wish Christmas came earlier. Upon what day, fair lady, do you think the leaves will be gone?" "In November, I suppose," she answered, with an affected indifference that did not deceive him. "The day after Thanksgiving, perhaps." "That's Friday, and I positively refuse to be married on a Friday." [Sidenote: The Best Day of All] "Then the day before--that's Wednesday. You know the old rhyme says: 'Wednesday the best day of all.'" So it was settled. Allan laughingly put down in his little red leather pocket diary, under the date of Wednesday, November twenty-fifth, "Miss Wynne's wedding." "Where is it to be?" he asked. "I wouldn't miss it for worlds." "I've been thinking about that," said Eloise, slowly, after a pause. "I suppose we'll have to be conventional." "Why?" "Because everybody is." "The very reason why we shouldn't be. This is our wedding, and we'll have it to please ourselves. It's probably our last." "In spite of the advanced civilisation in which we live," she returned, "I hope and believe that it is the one and only wedding in which either of us will ever take a leading part." "Haven't you ever had day-dreams, dear, about your wedding?" "Many a time," she laughed. "I'd be the rankest kind of polygamist if I had all the kinds I've planned for." "But the best kind?" he persisted. "Which is in the ascendant now?" [Sidenote: An Ideal Wedding] "If I could choose," she replied, thoughtfully, "I'd have it in some quiet little country church, on a brilliant, sunshiny day--the kind that makes your blood tingle and fills you with the joy of living. I'd like it to be Indian Summer, with gold and crimson leaves falling all through the woods. I'd like to have little brown birds chirping, and squirrels and chipmunks pattering through the leaves. I'd like to have the church almost in the heart of the woods, and have the sun stream into every nook and corner of it while we were being married. I'd like two taper lights at the altar, and the Episcopal service, but no music." "Any crowd?" Her sweet face grew very tender. "No," she said. "Nobody but our two selves." "We'll have to have a minister," he reminded her, practically, "and two witnesses. Otherwise it isn't legal. Whom would you choose for witnesses?" "I think I'd like to have Barbara and Roger. I don't know why, for I have so many other friends who mean more to me. Yet it seems, some way, as if they two belonged in the picture." [Sidenote: Right Now] A bright idea came to Allan. "Dearest," he said, "you couldn't have the falling leaves and the squirrels if we waited until Thanksgiving time, but it's all here, right now. Don't you remember that little church in the woods that we passed the other day--the little white church with maples all around it and the Autumn leaves dropping silently through the still, warm air? Why not here--and now?" "Oh, I couldn't," cried Eloise. "Why not?" "Oh, you're so stupid! Clothes and things! I've got a million things to do before I can be married decently." He laughed at her woman's reason as he put his arms around her. "I want a wife, and not a Parisian wardrobe. You're lovelier to me right now in your white linen gown than you've ever been before. Don't wear yourself out with dressmakers and shopping. You'll have all the rest of your life for that." "Won't I have all the rest of my life to get married in?" she queried, demurely. "You have if you insist upon taking it, darling, but I feel very strongly to get married to-day." "Not to-day," she demurred. "Why not? It's only half past one and the ceremony doesn't last over twenty minutes. I suppose it can be cut down to fifteen or eighteen if you insist upon having it condensed. You don't even need to wash your face. Get your hat and come on." His tone was tender, even pleading, but some far survival of Primitive Woman, whose marriage was by capture, stirred faintly in Eloise. "Our friends won't like it," she said, as a last excuse. [Sidenote: The Two Concerned] He noted, with joy, that she said "won't," instead of "wouldn't," but she did not realise that she had betrayed herself. "We don't care, do we?" he asked. "It's our wedding and nobody's else. When we can't please everybody, we might as well please ourselves. Matrimony is the one thing in the world that concerns nobody but the two who enter into it--and it's the thing that everybody has the most to say about. While you're putting on your hat, I'll get the license and see about a carriage." "I thought I'd wait until Barbara could go to town with me," she said. "There's nothing to hinder your coming back for her, if you want to and she isn't willing to come with Roger. I insist upon having my honeymoon alone." "All alone? If I were very good, wouldn't you let me come along?" Allan coloured. "You know what I mean," he said, softly. "I've waited so long, darling, and I think I've been patient. Isn't it time I was rewarded?" They were on the beach, behind the friendly sand-dune that had been their trysting place all Summer. Thoroughly humble in her surrender, yet wholly womanly, Eloise put her soft arms around his neck. "I will," she said. "Kiss me for the last time before----" "Before what?" demanded Allan, as, laughing, she extricated herself from his close embrace. "Before you exchange your sweetheart for a wife." [Sidenote: More Secure] "I'm not making any exchange. I'm only making my possession more secure. Look, dear." He took from his pocket a shining golden circlet which exactly fitted the third finger of her left hand. Their initials were engraved inside. Only the date was lacking. "I've had it for a long, long time," he said, in reply to her surprised question. "I hoped that some day I might find you in a yielding mood." When she went up to her room, her heart was beating wildly. This sudden plunge into the unknown was blinding, even though she longed to make it. Having come to the edge of the precipice she feared the leap, in spite of the conviction that life-long happiness lay beyond. In the fond sight of her lover, Eloise was very lovely when she went down in her white gown and hat, her eyes shining with the world-old joy that makes the old world new for those to whom it comes, be it soon or late. [Sidenote: Beautifully Unconventional] "It's beautifully unconventional," she said, as he assisted her into the surrey. "No bridesmaids, no wedding presents, and no dreary round of entertainments. I believe I like it." "I know I do," he responded, fervently. "You're the loveliest thing I've ever seen, sweetheart. Is that a new gown?" "I've worn it all Summer," she laughed "and it's been washed over a dozen times. You have lots to learn about gowns." "I'm a willing pupil," he announced. "Shouldn't you have a veil? I believe the bride's veil is usually 'of tulle, caught with a diamond star, the gift of the groom.'" "You've been reading the society column. Give me the star, and I'll get the veil." "You shall have it the first minute we get to town. I'd rob the Milky Way for you, if I could. I'd give you a handful of stars to play with and let you roll the sun and moon over the golf links." "I may take the moon," she replied. "I've always liked the looks of it, but I'm afraid the sun would burn my fingers. Somebody once got into trouble, I believe, for trying to drive the chariot of the sun for a day. Give me the moon and just one star." "Which star do you want?" [Sidenote: The Love-star] "The love-star," she answered, very softly. "Will you keep it shining for me, in spite of clouds and darkness?" "Indeed I will." The horses stopped at Barbara's door. Allan went across the street to call for Roger and Eloise went in to invite Barbara to go for a drive. "How lovely you look," cried Barbara, in admiration. "You look like a bride." "Make yourself look bridal also," suggested Eloise, flushing, "by putting on your best white gown. Roger is coming, too." Barbara missed the point entirely. It did not take her long to get ready, and she sang happily to herself while she was dressing. She put a white lace scarf of her mother's over her golden hair, which was now piled high on her shapely head, and started out, for the first time in all her twenty-two years, for a journey beyond the limits of her own domain. Allan and Roger helped her in. She was very awkward about it, and was sufficiently impressed with her awkwardness to offer a laughing apology. "I've never been in a carriage before," she said, "nor seen a train, nor even a church. All I've had is pictures and books--and Roger," she added, as an afterthought, when he took his place beside her on the back seat. "You're going to see lots of things to-day that you never saw before," observed Allan, starting the horses toward the hill road. "We'll begin by showing you a church, and then a wedding." "A wedding!" cried Barbara. "Who is going to be married?" "We," he replied, concisely. "Don't you think it's time?" "Isn't it sudden?" asked Roger. "I thought you weren't going to be married until almost Christmas." "I've been serving time now for two years," explained Allan, "and she's given me two months off for good behaviour. Just remember, young man, when your turn comes, that nothing is sudden when you've been waiting for it all your life." [Sidenote: The Little White Church] The door of the little white church was open and the sun that streamed through the door and the stained glass windows carried the glory and the radiance of Autumn into every nook and corner of it. At the altar burned two tall taper lights, and the young minister, in white vestments, was waiting. The joking mood was still upon Allan and Eloise, but she requested in all seriousness that the word "obey" be omitted from the ceremony. "Why?" asked the minister, gravely. "Because I don't want to promise anything I don't intend to do." "Put it in for me," suggested Allan, cheerfully. "I might as well promise, for I'll have to do it anyway." Gradually, the hush and solemnity of the church banished the light mood. A new joy, deeper, and more lasting, took the place of laughter as they sat in the front pew, reading over the service. Barbara and Roger sat together, half way down to the door. Neither had spoken since they entered the church. A shaft of golden light lay full upon Eloise's face. In that moment, before they went to the altar, Allan was afraid of her, she seemed so angelic, so unreal. But the minister was waiting, with his open book. "Come," said Allan, in a whisper, and she rose, smiling, to follow him, not only then, but always. [Sidenote: The Ceremony] "Dearly Beloved," began the minister, "we are gathered here together in the sight of God and in the face of this company, to join together this man and this woman in holy matrimony." He went on through the beautiful service, while the light streamed in, bearing its fairy freight of colour and gold, and the swift patter of the Little People of the Forest rustled through the drifting leaves. It was all as Eloise had chosen, even to the two who sat far back, with their hands clasped, as wide-eyed as children before this sacred merging of two souls into one. A little brown bird perched on the threshold, chirped a few questioning notes, then flew away to his own nest. Acorns fell from the oaks across the road, and the musical hum and whir of Autumn came faintly from the fields. The taper lights burned in the sunshine like yellow stars. "That ye may so live together in this life," the minister was saying, "that in the world to come ye may have life everlasting. Amen." [Sidenote: After the Ordeal] It was over in an incredibly brief space of time. When they came down the aisle, Allan had the satisfied air of a man who has just emerged, triumphantly, through his own skill, from a very difficult and dangerous ordeal. Eloise was radiant, for her heart was singing within her a splendid strophe of joy. When Barbara and Roger went to meet them, the strange, new shyness that had settled down upon them both effectually hindered conversation. Roger began an awkward little speech of congratulation, which immediately became inarticulate and ended in silent embarrassment. But Allan wrung Roger's hand in a mighty grip that made him wince, and Eloise smiled, for she saw more than either of them had yet guessed. "You're kids," she said, fondly; "just dear, foolish kids." Impulsively, she kissed them both, then they all went out into the sunshine again. The minister's eyes followed them with a certain wistfulness, for he was young, and, as yet, the great miracle had not come to him. He sighed when he put out the tapers and closed the door that divided him from the music of Autumn and one great, overwhelming joy. [Sidenote: On the Way Home] On the way home, neither Barbara nor Roger spoke. They had nothing to say and the others were silent because they had so much. They left the two at Barbara's gate, then Allan turned the horses back to the hill road. They were to have two glorious, golden hours alone before taking the afternoon train. Barbara and Roger watched them as they went slowly up the tawny road that trailed like a ribbon over the pageantry of the hill. When they came to the crossroads, where one road led to the church and the other into the boundless world beyond, Eloise leaned far out to wave a fluttering bit of white in farewell. "And on her lover's arm she leant, And round her waist she felt it fold, And far across the hills they went In that new world which is the old," quoted Barbara, softly. [Sidenote: O'er the Hills] "And o'er the hills, and far away, Beyond their utmost purple rim, Beyond the night, across the day, Through all the world she followed him," added Roger. The carriage was now only a black speck on the brow of the hill. Presently it descended into the Autumn sunset and vanished altogether. "I'm glad they asked us," said Roger. "Wasn't it dear of them!" cried Barbara, with her face aglow. "Oh, Roger, if I ever have a wedding, I want it to be just like that!" XXIII Letters to Constance [Sidenote: Faith in Results] Roger was in the library, trying to choose, from an embarrassment of riches, the ten of his father's books which he was to be permitted to take to the city with him. With characteristic thoughtfulness, Eloise had busied herself in his behalf immediately upon her return to town. She had found a good opportunity for him, and the letter appointing the time for a personal interview was even then in his pocket. Neither he nor his mother had the slightest doubt as to the result. Miss Mattie was certain that any lawyer with sense enough to practise law would be only too glad to have Roger in his office. She scornfully dismissed the grieving owner of Fido from her consideration, for it was obvious that anyone with even passable mental equipment would not have been disturbed by the accidental and painless removal of a bull pup. Roger's ambition and eagerness made him very sure of the outcome of his forthcoming venture. All he asked for was the chance to work, and Eloise was giving him that. How good she had been and how much she had done for Barbara! Roger's heart fairly overflowed with gratitude and he registered a boyish vow not to disappoint those who believed in him. It seemed strange to think of Eloise as "Mrs. Conrad." She had signed her brief note to Roger, "Very cordially, Eloise Wynne Conrad." Down in the corner she had written "Mrs. Allan Conrad." Roger smiled as he noted the space between the "Wynne" and the "Conrad" in her signature--the surest betrayal of a bride. "If I should marry," Roger thought, "my wife's name would be 'Mrs. Roger Austin.'" He wrote it out on a scrap of paper to see how it would look. It was certainly very attractive. "And if it were Barbara, for instance, she would sign her letters 'Barbara North Austin.'" He wrote that out, too, and, in the lamplight, appreciatively studied the effect from many different angles. It was really a very beautiful name. [Sidenote: Lost in Reverie] He lost himself in reverie, and it was nearly an hour afterward when he returned to the difficult task of choosing his ten books. Shakespeare, of course--fortunately there was a one-volume edition that came within the letter of the law if not the spirit of it. To this he added Browning. As it happened, there was a complete one-volume edition of this, too. Emerson came next--the Essays in two volumes. That made four. He added _Vanity Fair_, _David Copperfield_, a translation of the _�neid_, and his beloved Keats. He hesitated a long time over the last two, but finally took down Boswell's _Life of Johnson_ and the _Essays of Elia_, neither of which he had read. [Sidenote: A Little Old Book] Behind these two books, which had stood side by side, there was a small, thin book that had either fallen down or been hidden there. Roger took it out and carefully wiped off the dust. It was a blank book in which his father had written on all but the last few pages. He took it over to the table, drew the lamp closer, and sat down. The gay cover had softened with the years, the pages were yellow, and some of them were blurred by blistering spots. The ink had faded, but the writing was still legible. At the top of the first page was the date, "_Evening, June the seventh_." "I have lived long," was written on the next line below, "but a thousand years of living have been centred remorselessly into to-day. I cannot go over, though in this house and in the one across the road it will seem very strange. I knew the clouds of darkness must eternally hide us each from the other, that we must see each other no more save at a great distance, but the thunder and the riving lightning have put heaven between us as well as earth. "I cannot eat, for food is dust and ashes in my mouth. I cannot drink enough water to moisten my dry, parched throat. I cannot answer when anyone speaks to me, for I do not hear what is said. It does not seem that I shall ever sleep again. Yet God, pitiless and unforgiving, lets me live on." The remainder of the page was blank. The next entry was dated: "_June tenth. Night._" [Sidenote: No Other Way] "I had to go. There was no other way. I had to sit and listen. I saw the blind man in the room beyond, sitting beside the dark woman with the hard face. She had the little lame baby in her arms--the baby who is a year or so younger than my own son. I smelled the tuberoses and the great clusters of white lilacs. And I saw her, dead, with her golden braids on either side of her, smiling, in her white casket. When no one was looking, I touched her hand. I called softly, 'Constance.' She did not answer, so I knew she was dead. "I had to go to the churchyard, with the others. I was compelled to look at the grave and to see the white casket lowered in. I heard that awful fall of earth upon her and a voice saying those terrible words, 'Dust to dust, earth to earth, ashes to ashes.' The blind man sobbed aloud when the earth fell. The dark woman with the hard face did not seem to care. I could have strangled her, but I had to keep my hands still. "They said that she had not been sleeping and that she took too much laudanum by mistake. It was not a mistake, for she was not of that sort. She did it purposely. She did it because of that one mad hour of full confession. I have killed her. After three years of self-control, it failed me, and I went mad. It was my fault, for if I had not failed, she would not have gone mad, too. I have killed her." "_June fifteenth. Midnight._ "I am calmer now. I can think more clearly. I have been alone in the woods all day and every day since--. I have been thinking, thinking, thinking, and going over everything. She left no word for me; she was so sure I would understand. I do not understand yet, but I shall. [Sidenote: Estranged] "There was no wrong between us, there never would have been. We were divided by the whole earth, denied by all the leagues of sundering sea. Now we are estranged by all the angels of heaven and all the hosts of hell. "My arms ache for her--my lips hunger for hers. In that mysterious darkness, does she want me, too? Did her heart cry out for me as mine for her, until the blood of the poppies mingled with hers and brought the white sleep? "It would have been something to know that we breathed the same air, trod the same highways, listened together to the thrush and robin, and all the winged wayfarers of forest and field. It would have been comfort to know the same sun shone on us both, that the same moon lighted the midnight silences with misty silver, that the same stars burned taper-lights in the vaulted darkness for her and for me. [Sidenote: One Hour] "But I have not even that. I have nothing, though I have done no wrong beyond holding her in my arms for one little hour. Out of all the time that was before our beginning, out of all the time that shall be after our ending, and in all the unpitying years of our mortal life, we have had one hour." "_June nineteenth._ "I have been to her grave. I have tried to realise that the little mound of earth upon the distant hill, over which the sun and stars sweep endlessly, still shelters her; that, in some way, she is there. But I cannot. "The mystery agonises me, for I have never had the belief that comforts so many. Why is one belief any better than another when we come face to face with the grey, impenetrable veil that never parts save for a passage? Freed from the bonds of earth, does she still live, somewhere, in perfect peace with no thought of me? Sentient, but invisible, is she here beside me now? Or is she asleep, dreamlessly, abiding in the earth until some archangel shall sound the trumpet bidding all the myriad dead arise? Oh, God, God! Only tell me where she is, that I may go, too!" "_June twenty-first._ [Sidenote: The Hand Stayed] "It is true that the path she took is open to me also. I have thought of it many times. I am not afraid to follow where she has led, even into the depths of hell. I have had for several days a vial of the crushed poppies, and the bitter odour, even now, fills my room. Only one thought stays my hand--my little son. "Should I follow, he must inevitably come to believe that his father was a coward--that he was afraid of life, which is the most craven fear of all. He will see that I have given to him something that I could not bear myself, and will despise me, as people despise a man who shirks his burden and shifts it to the shoulders of one weaker than he. "When temptation assails him, he will remember that his father yielded. When life looms dark before him and among the fearful shadows there is no hint of light, he will recall that his father was too much of a coward to go into those same shadows, carrying his own light. "And if his heart is ever filled with an awful agony that requires all his strength to meet it, he will remember that his father failed. I could not rest in my grave if my son, living, should despise me, even though my narrow house was in the same darkness that hides Her." "_July tenth. Dawn._ [Sidenote: Punishment] "This, then, is my punishment. Because for one hour my self-control deserted me, when my man's blood had been crying out for three years for the touch of her--because for one little hour my hungry arms held her close to my aching heart, there is no peace. Nowhere in earth nor in heaven nor in hell is there one moment's forgetfulness. Nowhere in all God's illimitable universe is there pardon and surcease of pain. "The blind man comes to me and talks of her. He asks me piteously, 'Why?' He calls me his friend. He says that she often spoke of me; that they were glad to have me in their house. He asks me if she ever said one word that would give a reason. Was she unhappy? Was it because he was blind and the little yellow-haired baby with her mother's blue eyes was born lame? I can only say 'No,' and beg him not to talk of it--not even to think of it." "_July twentieth. Night._ "The beauty of the world at midsummer only makes my loneliness more keen. The butterflies flit through the meadows like wandering souls of last year's flowers that died and were buried by the snow. The harvest moon, red-gold and wonderful, will rise slowly up out of the sea. The path of light will lie on the still waters and widen into a vast arc at the line of the shore. Cobwebs will come among the stubble when the harvest is gathered in and on them will lie dewdrops that the moon will make into pearls. [Sidenote: Cycle of the Seasons] "The gorgeous colouring of Autumn will transfigure the hills with glory, and fill the far silences with misty amethyst and gold. The year-long sleep will come with the first snow, and the stars burn blue and cold in the frosty night. April bugles will wake the violets and anemones, the dead leaves of Autumn will be starred with springtime bloom, May will dance through the world with lilacs and apple blossoms, and I shall be alone. "I can go to her grave again and see the violets all around it, their exquisite odour made of her dust. I can carry to her the first roses of June, as I used to do, but she cannot take them in her still hands. I can only lay them on that impassable mound, and let the warm rains, as soft as woman's tears, drip down and down and down until the fragrance and my love come to her in the mist. "But will she care? Is that last sleep so deep that the quiet heart is never stirred by love? When my whole soul goes out to her in an agony of love and pain, is it possible that there is no answer? If there is a God in heaven, it cannot be!" "_October fifth. Night._ "It is said that Time heals everything. I have been waiting to see if it were so. Day by day my loss is greater; day by day my grief becomes more difficult to bear. I read all the time, or pretend to. I sit for hours with the open book before me and never see a line that is printed there. Oh, Love, if I could dream to-night, in the earth with you!" "_October seventh._ "Just four months ago to-day! I was numb, then, with the shock and horror. I could not feel as I do now. When the tide of my heart came in, with agony in every pulse-beat, it rose steadily to the full, without pause, without rest. I think it has reached its flood now, for I cannot endure more. Will there ever be recession?" "_November tenth._ [Sidenote: Death of Passion] "I am coming, gradually, to have some sort of faith. I do not know why, for I have never had it before. I can see that all things made of earth must perish as the leaves. Passion dies because it is of the earth, but does not love live? [Sidenote: A Gift] "If only the finer things of the spirit could be bequeathed, like material possessions! All I have to leave my son is a very small income and a few books. I cannot give him endurance, self-control, or the power to withstand temptation. I cannot give him joy. If I could, I should leave him one priceless gift--my love for Constance, to which, for one hour, hers answered fully--I should give him that love with no barrier to divide it from its desire. "I wonder if Constance would have left hers to her little yellow-haired girl? I wonder if sometimes the joys of the fathers are not visited upon their children as well as their sins?" "_November nineteenth. Night._ "I have come to believe that love never dies for God is love, and He is immortal. My love for Constance has not died and cannot. Why should hers have died? It does not seem that it has, since to-day, for the first time, I have found surcease. "Constance is dead, but she has left her love to sustain and strengthen me. It streams out from the quiet hillside to-night as never before, and gives me the peace of a benediction. I understand, now, the blinding pain of the last five months. The immortal spirit of love, which can neither die nor grow old, was extricating itself from the earth that clung to it. "_December third._ "At last I have come to perfect peace. I no longer hunger so terribly for the touch of her, for my aching arms to clasp her close, for her lips to quiver beneath mine. The tide has ebbed--there is no more pain. "I have come, strangely, into kinship with the universe. I have a feeling to-night of brotherhood. I can see that death is no division when a heart is deep enough to hold a grave. The Grey Angel cannot separate her from me, though she took the white poppies from his hands, and gave none to me. "_December eighteenth._ [Sidenote: Day by Day] "Constance, Beloved, I feel you near to-night. The wild snows of Winter have blown across your grave, but your love is warm and sweet around my heart. The sorrow is all gone and in its place has come a peace as deep and calm as the sea. I can wait, day by day, until the Grey Angel summons me to join you; until the poppies that stilled your heartbeats, shall, in another way, quiet mine, too. "I can have faith. I can believe that somewhere beyond the star-filled spaces, when this arc of mortal life merges into the perfect circle of eternity, there will be no barrier between you and me, because, if God is love, love must be God, and He has no limitations. "I can take up my burden and go on until the road divides, and the Grey Angel leads me down your path. I can be kind. I can try, each day, to put joy into the world that so sorely needs it, and to take nothing away from whatever it holds of happiness now. I can be strong because I have known you, I can have courage because you were brave, I can be true because you were true, I can be tender because I love you. "At last I understand. It is passion that cries out for continual assurance, for fresh sacrifices, for new proof. Love needs nothing but itself; it asks for nothing but to give itself; it denies nothing, neither barriers nor the grave. Love can wait until life comes to its end, and trust to eternity, because it is of God." * * * * * [Sidenote: A Man's Heart] Roger put the little book down and wiped his eyes. He had come upon a man's heart laid bare and was thrilled to the depths by the revelation. He was as one who stands in a holy place, with uncovered head, in the hush that follows prayer. In the midst of his tenderness for his dead father welled up a passionate loyalty toward the woman who slept in the room adjoining the library, whose soul had "never been welded." She had known life no more than a prattling brook in a meadow may know the sea. Bound in shallows, she knew nothing of the unutterable vastness in which deep answered unto deep; tide and tempest and blue surges were fraught with no meaning for her. The clock struck twelve and Roger still sat there, with his head resting upon his hand. He read once more his father's wish to bequeath to him his love, "with no barrier to divide it from its desire." Hedged in by earth and hopelessly put asunder, could it at last come to fulfilment through daughter and son? At the thought his heart swelled with a pure passion all its own--the eager pulse-beats owed nothing to the dead. [Sidenote: Out into the Night] He found a sheet of paper and reverently wrapped up the little brown book. An hour later, he slipped under the string a letter of his own, sealed and addressed, and quietly, though afraid that the beating of his heart sounded in the stillness, went out into the night. XXIV The Bells in the Tower The sea was very blue behind the Tower of Cologne, though it was not yet dawn. The velvet darkness, in that enchanted land, seemed to have a magical quality--it veiled but did not hide. Barbara went up the glass steps, made of cologne bottles, and opened the door. [Sidenote: The Tower Unchanged] She had not been there for a long time, but nothing was changed. The winding stairway hung with tapestries and the round windows at the landings, through which one looked to the sea, were all the same. King Arthur, Sir Lancelot and Guinevere were all in the Tower, as usual. The Lady of Shalott was there, with Mr. Pickwick, Dora, and Little Nell. All the dear people of the books moved through the lovely rooms, sniffing at cologne, or talking and laughing with each other, just as they pleased. The red-haired young man and the two blue and white nurses were still there, but they seemed to be on the point of going out. Doctor Conrad and Eloise were in every room she went into. Eloise was all in white, like a bride, and the Doctor was very, very happy. Ambrose North was there, no longer blind or dead, but well and strong and able to see. He took Barbara in his arms when she went in, kissed her, and called her "Constance." A sharp pang went through her heart because he did not know her. "I'm Barbara, Daddy," she cried out; "don't you know me?" But he only murmured, "Constance, my Beloved," and kissed her again--not with a father's kiss, but with a yearning tenderness that seemed very strange. She finally gave up trying to make him understand that her name was Barbara--that she was not Constance at all. At last she said, "It doesn't matter by what name you call me, as long as you love me," and went on upstairs. [Sidenote: An Unfinished Tapestry] One of the tapestries that hung on the wall along the winding stairway was new--at least she did not remember having seen it before. It was in the soft rose and gold and brown and blue of the other tapestries, and appeared old, as though it had been hanging there for some time. She fingered it curiously. It felt and looked like the others, but it must be new, for it was not quite finished. In the picture, a man in white vestments stood at an altar with his hands outstretched in blessing. Before him knelt a girl and a man. The girl was in white and the taper-lights at the altar shone on her two long yellow braids that hung down over her white gown, so that they looked like burnished gold. The face was turned away so that she could not see who it was, but the man who knelt beside her was looking straight at her, or would have been, if the tapestry-maker had not put down her needle at a critical point. The man's face had not been touched, though everything else was done. Barbara sighed. She hoped that the next time she came to the Tower the tapestry would be finished. [Sidenote: In the Violet Room] She went into the violet room, for a little while, and sat down on a green chair with a purple cushion in it. She took a great bunch of violets out of a bowl and buried her face in the sweetness. Then she went to the mantel, where the bottles were, and drenched her handkerchief with violet water. She had tried all the different kinds of cologne that were in the Tower, but she liked the violet water best, and nearly always went into the violet room for a little while on her way upstairs. As she turned to go out, the Boy joined her. He was a young man now, taller than Barbara, but his face, as always, was hidden from her as by a mist. His voice was very kind and tender as he took both her hands in his. "How do you do, Barbara, dear?" he asked. "You have not been in the Tower for a long time." "I have been ill," she answered. "See?" She tried to show him her crutches, but they were not there. "I used to have crutches," she explained. "Did you?" he asked, in surprise. "You never had them in the Tower." "That's so," she answered. "I had forgotten." She remembered now that when she went into the Tower she had always left her crutches leaning up against the glass steps. "Let's go upstairs," suggested the Boy, "and ring the golden bells in the cupola." Barbara wanted to go very much, but was afraid to try it, because she had never been able to reach the cupola. "If you get tired," the Boy went on, as though he had read her thought, "I'll put my arm around you and help you walk. Come, let's go." [Sidenote: Up the Winding Stairs] They went out of the violet room and up the winding stairway. Barbara was not tired at all, but she let him put his arm around her, and leaned her cheek against his shoulder as they climbed. Some way, she felt that this time they were really going to reach the cupola. It was very sweet to be taken care of in this way and to hear the Boy's deep, tender voice telling her about the Lady of Shalott and all the other dear people who lived in the Tower. Sometimes he would make her sit down on the stairs to rest. He sat beside her so that he might keep his arm around her, and Barbara wished, as never before, that she might see his face. [Sidenote: The Angel with the Flaming Sword] Finally, they came to the last landing. They had been up as high as this once before, but it was long ago. The cupola was hidden in a cloud as before, but it seemed to be the cloud of a Summer day, and not a dark mist. They went into the cloud, and an Angel with a Flaming Sword appeared before them and stopped them. The Angel was all in white and very tall and stately, with a divinely tender face--Barbara's own face, exalted and transfigured into beauty beyond all words. "Please," said Barbara, softly, though she was not at all afraid, "may we go up into the cupola and ring the golden bells? We have tried so many times." There was no answer, but Barbara saw the Angel looking at her with infinite longing and love. All at once, she knew that the Angel was her mother. "Please, Mother dear," said Barbara, "let us go in and ring the bells." The Angel smiled and stepped aside, pointing to the right with the Flaming Sword that made a rainbow in the cloud. In the light of it, they went through the mist, that seemed to be lifting now. "We're really in the cupola," cried the Boy, in delight. "See, here are the bells." He took the two heavy golden chains in his hands and gave one to Barbara. "Ring!" she cried out. "Oh, ring all the bells at once! Now!" [Sidenote: Ringing the Bells] They pulled the two chains with all their strength, and from far above them rang out the most wonderful golden chimes that anyone had ever dreamed of--strong and sweet and thrilling, yet curiously soft and low. With the first sound, the mist lifted and the Angel with the Flaming Sword came into the cupola and stood near them, smiling. Far out was the blue sky that bent down to meet a bluer sea, the sand on the shore was as white as the blown snow, and the sea-birds that circled around the cupola in the crystalline, fragrant air were singing. The melody blended strangely with the sound of the surf on the shining shore below. The Angel with the Flaming Sword touched Barbara gently on the arm, and smiled. Barbara looked up, first at the Angel, and then at the Boy who stood beside her. The mist that had always been around him had lifted, too, and she saw that it was Roger, whom she had known all her life. Barbara woke with a start. The sound of the golden bells was still chiming in her ears. "Roger," she said, dreamily, "we rang them all together, didn't we?" But Roger did not answer, for she was in her own little room, now, and not in the Tower of Cologne. She slipped out of bed and her little bare, pink feet pattered over to the window. She pushed the curtains back and looked out. It was a keen, cool, Autumn morning, and still dark, but in the east was the deep, wonderful purple that presages daybreak. Oh, to see the sun rise over the sea! Barbara's heart ached with longing. She had wanted to go for so many years and nobody had ever thought of taking her. Now, though Roger had suggested it more than once, she had said, each time, that when she went she wanted to go alone. [Sidenote: "I'll Try It"] "I'll try it," she thought. "If I get tired, I can sit down and rest, and if I think it is going to be too much for me, I can come back. It can't be very far--just down this road." She dressed hurriedly, putting on her warm, white wool gown and her little low soft shoes. She did not stop to brush out her hair and braid it again, for it was very early and no one would see. She put over her head the white lace scarf she had worn to the wedding, took her white knitted shawl, and went downstairs so quietly that Aunt Miriam did not hear her. She unbolted the door noiselessly and went out, closing it carefully after her. On the top step was a very small package, tied with string, and a letter addressed, simply, "To Barbara." She recognised it as a book and a note from Roger--he had done such things before. She did not want to go back, so she tucked it under her arm and went on. It seemed so strange to be going out of her gate alone and in the dark! Barbara was thrilled with a sense of adventure and romance which was quite new to her. This journeying into unknown lands in pursuit of unknown waters had all the fascination of discovery. [Sidenote: An Autumn Dawn] She went down the road faster than she had ever walked before. She was not at all tired and was eager for the sea. The Autumn dawn with its keen, cool air stirred her senses to new and abounding life. She went on and on and on, pausing now and then to lean against somebody's fence, or to rest on a friendly boulder when it appeared along the way. Faint suggestions of colour appeared in the illimitable distances beyond. Barbara saw only a vast, grey expanse, but the surf murmured softly on the shadowy shore. Crossing the sand, and stumbling as she went, she stooped and dipped her hand into it, then put her rosy forefinger into her mouth to see if it were really salt, as everyone said. She sat down in the soft, cool sand, drew her white knitted shawl and lace scarf more closely about her, and settled herself to wait. [Sidenote: Sunrise on the Sea] The deep purple softened with rose. Tints of gold came far down on the horizon line. Barbara drew a long breath of wonder and joy. Out in the vastness dark surges sang and crooned, breaking slowly into white foam as they approached the shore. Rose and purple melted into amethyst and azure, and, out beyond the breakers, the grey sea changed to opal and pearl. Mist rose from the far waters and the long shafts of leaping light divided it by rainbows as it lifted. Prismatic fires burned on the boundless curve where the sky met the sea. Wet-winged gulls, crying hoarsely, came from the night that still lay upon the islands near shore, and circled out across the breakers to meet the dawn. Spires of splendid colour flamed to the zenith, the whole east burned with crimson and glowed with gold, and from that far, mystical arc of heaven and earth, a javelin of molten light leaped to the farthest hill. The pearl and opal changed to softest green, mellowed by turquoise and gold, the slow blue surges chimed softly on the singing shore, and Barbara's heart beat high with rapture, for it was daybreak in earth and heaven and morning in her soul. She sat there for over an hour, asking for nothing but the sky and sea, and the warm, sweet sun that made the air as clear as crystal and touched the Autumn hills with living flame. She drew long breaths of the wind that swept, like shafts of sunrise, half-way across the world. [Sidenote: The Boy in the Tower] At last she turned to the package that lay beside her, and untied the string, idly wondering what book Roger had sent. How strange that the Boy in the Tower should be Roger, and yet, was it so strange, after all, when she had known him all her life? Before looking at the book, she tore open the letter and read it--with wide, wondering eyes and wild-beating heart. [Sidenote: Roger's Letter] "Barbara, my darling," it began. "I found this book to-night and so I send it to you, for it is yours as much as mine. "I think my father's wish has been granted and his love has been bequeathed to me. I have known for a long time how much I care for you, and I have often tried to tell you, but fear has kept me silent. "It has been so sweet to live near you, to read to you when you were sewing or while you were ill, and sweeter than all else besides to help you walk, and to feel that you leaned on me, depending on me for strength and guidance. "Sometimes I have thought you cared, too, and then I was not sure, so I have kept the words back, fearing to lose what I have. But to-night, after having read his letters, I feel that I must throw the dice for eternal winning or eternal loss. You can never know, if I should spend the rest of my life in telling you, just how much you have meant to me in a thousand different ways. "Looking back, I see that you have given me my ideals, since the time we made mud pies together and built the Tower of Cologne, for which, alas, we never got the golden bells. I have loved you always and it has not changed since the beginning, save to grow deeper and sweeter with every day that passed. "As much as I have of courage, or tenderness, or truth, or honour, I owe to you, who set my standard high for me at the beginning, and oh, my dearest, my love has kept me clean. If I have nothing else to give you, I can offer you a clean heart and clean hands, for there is nothing in my life that can make me ashamed to look straight into the eyes of the woman I love. "Ever since we went to that wedding the other day, I have been wishing it were our own--that you and I might stand together before God's high altar in that little church with the sun streaming in, and be joined, each to the other, until death do us part. "Sweetheart, can you trust me? Can you believe that it is for always and not just for a little while? Has your mother left her love to you as my father left me his? "Let me have the sweetness of your leaning on me always, let me take care of you, comfort you when you are tired, laugh with you when you are glad, and love you until death and even after, as he loved her. "Tell me you care, Barbara, even if it is only a little. Tell me you care, and I can wait, a long, long time. "ROGER." Barbara's heart sang with the joy of the morning. She opened the little worn book, with its yellow, tear-stained pages, and read it all, up to the very last line. "Oh!" she cried aloud, in pity. "Oh! oh!" Fully understanding, she put it aside, closing the faded cover reverently on its love and pain. Then she turned to Roger's letter, and read it again. [Sidenote: First Flush of Rapture] Dreaming over it, in the first flush of that mystical rapture which makes the world new for those to whom it comes, as light is recreated with every dawn, she took no heed of the passing hours. She did not know that it was very late, nor that Aunt Miriam, much worried, had asked Roger to go in search of her. She knew only that love and morning and the sea were all hers. The tide was coming in. Each wave broke a little higher upon the thirsting shore. Far out on the water was a tiny dark object that moved slowly shoreward on the crests of the waves. Barbara stood up, shading her eyes with her hand, and waited, counting the rhythmic pulse-beats that brought it nearer. She could not make out what it was, for it advanced and then receded, or paused in a circling eddy made by two retreating waves. At last a high wave brought it in and left it, stranded, at her feet. [Sidenote: A Fragment] Barbara laughed aloud, for, broken by the wind and wave and worn by tide, a fragment of one of her crutches had come back to her. The bit of flannel with which she had padded the sharp end, so that the sound would not distress her father, still clung to it. She wondered how it came there, never guessing that it was but the natural result of Eloise's attempt to throw it as far as Allan had thrown the other, the day he took them away from her. A great sob of thankfulness almost choked her. Here she stood firmly on her own two feet, after twenty-two years of helplessness, reminded of it only by a fragment of a crutch that the sea had given back as it gives up its dead. She had outgrown her need of crutches as the tiny creatures of the sea outgrow their shells. "Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul, As the swift seasons roll! Leave thy low-vaulted past! Let each new temple, nobler than the last, Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast, Till thou at length art free, Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea!" The beautiful words chanted themselves over and over in her consciousness. The past, with all its pain and grieving, fell from her like a garment. She was one with the sun and the morning; uplifted by all the world's joy. [Sidenote: The True Lover] Her blood sang within her and it seemed that her heart had wings. All of life lay before her--that life which is made sweet by love. She felt again the ecstasy that claimed her in the Tower of Cologne, when she and the Boy, after a lifetime of waiting, had rung all the golden bells at once. And the Boy was Roger--always had been Roger--only she did not know. Into Barbara's heart came something new and sweet that she had never known before--the deep sense of conviction and the everlasting peace which the True Lover, and he alone, has power to bestow. It was part of the wonder of the morning that when she turned, startled a little by a muffled footstep, she should see Roger with his hands outstretched in pleading and all his soul in his eyes. Barbara's face took on the unearthly beauty of dawn. Her blue eyes deepened to violet, her sweet lips smiled. She was radiant, from her feet to the heavy braids that hung over her shoulders and the shimmering halo of soft hair, that blew, like golden mist, about her face. Roger caught her mood unerringly--it was like him always to understand. He was no longer afraid, and the trembling of his boyish mouth was lost in a smile. She was more beautiful than the morning of which she seemed a veritable part--and she was his. [Sidenote: Flower of the Dawn] "Flower of the Dawn," he cried, his voice ringing with love and triumph, "do you care? Are you mine?" She went to him, smiling, with the colour of the fiery dawning on her cheeks and lips. "Yes," she whispered. "Didn't you know?" Then the sun and the morning and the world itself vanished all at once beyond his ken, for Barbara had put her soft little hand upon his shoulder, and lifted her love-lit face to his. THE END. * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: Obvious punctuation errors repaired. Page 4, "instrusted" changed to "intrusted" (china intrusted) Page 272, "checks" changed to "cheeks" (fair cheeks) Page 275, "venegeance" changed to "vengeance" (not of His vengeance) Page 321, "anenomes" changed to "anemones" (and anemones) Page 326, "assunder" changed to "asunder" (hopelessly put asunder) 
42703	----	(Images generously made available by the Internet Archive - Toronto University, Robarts OVERLOOKED By MAURICE BARING London: William Heinemann 1922 To M.A.T OVERLOOKED PART I THE PAPERS OF ANTHONY KAY CHAPTER I When my old friend and trusted adviser, Doctor Kennaway, told me that I must go to Haréville and stay there a month or, still better, two months, I asked him what I could possibly do there. The only possible pastime at a watering-place is to watch. A blind man is debarred from that pastime. He said to me: "Why don't you write a novel?" I said that I had never written anything in my life. He then said that a famous editor, of the _Figaro_, I think, had once said that every man had one newspaper article in him. Novel could be substituted for newspaper article. I objected that, although I found writing on my typewriter a soothing occupation, I had always been given to understand by authors that correcting proofs was the only real fun in writing a book. I was debarred from that. We talked of other things and I thought no more about this till after I had been at Haréville a week. When I arrived there, although the season had scarcely begun, I made acquaintances more rapidly than I had expected, and most of my time was taken up in idle conversation. After I had been drinking the waters for a week, I made the acquaintance of James Rudd, the novelist. I had never met him before. I have, indeed, rarely met a novelist. When I have done so they have either been elderly ladies who specialized in the life of the Quartier-Latin, or country gentlemen who kept out all romance from their general conversation, which they confined to the crops and the misdeeds of the Government. James Rudd did not certainly belong to either of these categories. He was passionately interested in his own business. He did not seem in the least inclined to talk about anything else. He took for granted I had read all his works. I think he supposed that even the blind could hardly have failed to do that. Some of his works have been read to me. I did not like to put it in this way, lest he should think I was calling attention to the absence of his books in the series which have been transcribed in the Braille language. But he was evidently satisfied that I knew his work. I enjoyed the books of his which were read to me, but then, I enjoy any novel. I did not tell him that. I let him take for granted that I had taken for granted all there was to be taken for granted. I imagine him to wear a faded Venetian-red tie, a low collar, and loose blue clothes (I shall find out whether this is true later), to be a non-smoker--I am, in fact, sure of that--a practical teetotaler, not without a nice discrimination based on the imagination rather than on experience, of French vintage wines, and a fine appreciation of all the arts. He is certainly not young, and I think rather weary, but still passionately interested in the only thing which he thinks worthy of any interest. I found him an entertaining companion, easy and stimulating. He had been sent to Haréville by Kennaway, which gave us a link. Kennaway had told him to leave off writing novels for five weeks if he possibly could. He was finding it difficult. He told me he was longing to write, but could think of no subject. I suggested to him that he should write a novel about the people at Haréville. I said I could introduce him to three ladies and that they could form the nucleus of the story. He was delighted with the idea, and that same evening I introduced him to Princess Kouragine, who is not, as her name sounds, a Russian, but a French lady, _née_ Robert, who married a Prince Serge Kouragine. He died some years ago. She is a lady of so much sense, and so ripe in wisdom and experience, that I felt her acquaintance must do any novelist good. I also introduced him to Mrs. Lennox, who is here with her niece, Miss Jean Brandon. Mrs. Lennox, I knew, would enjoy meeting a celebrity; she sacrificed an evening's gambling for the sake of his society, and the next day, she asked him to luncheon. In the evening he told me that Miss Brandon would be a suitable heroine for his novel. I asked him if he had begun it. He said he was planning it, but as it was a holiday novel, and as he had been forbidden to work, he was not going to make it a real book. He was going to write this novel for his own enjoyment, and not for the public. He would never publish it. He would be very grateful, all the same, if I allowed him to discuss it with me, as he could not write a story without discussing it with someone. I said I would willingly discuss the story with him, and I have determined to keep a record of our conversations, and indeed of everything that affects this matter, in case he one day publishes the novel, or publishes what the novel may turn into; for I feel that it will not remain unpublished, even though it turns into something quite different. I shall thus have all the fun of seeing a novel planned without the trouble of writing one myself. "Of course you have the advantage of knowing these people quite well," he said. I told him that he was mistaken. I had never met any of them, except Princess Kouragine, before. And it was years since I had seen her. "The first problem is," he said, "Why is Miss Brandon not married? She must be getting on for thirty, if she is not thirty yet, and it is strange that a person with her looks----" "I have often wondered what she looks like," I said, "and I have made my picture of her. Shall I tell it you, and you can tell me whether it is at all like the reality?" He was most anxious to hear my description. I said that I imagined Miss Brandon to be as changeable in appearance as the sky. I explained to him that I had not always been blind, that my blindness had come comparatively late in life from a shooting accident, in which I lost one eye--the sight of the other I lost gradually afterwards. I had imagined her as the lady who walked in the garden in Shelley's _Sensitive Plant_ (I could not remember all the quotation): "A sea-flower unfolded beneath the ocean." Still, and rather mysterious, elusive and rare. He said I was right about the variability, but that he saw her differently. It was true she was pale, delicate, and extremely refined, but her eyes were the interesting thing about her. She was like a sapphire. She looked better in the daytime than in the evening. By candle-light she seemed to fade. She did not remind him of Shelley at all. She was not ethereal nor diaphanous. She was a sapphire, not a moonstone. She belonged to the world of romance, not to the world of lyric poetry. Something had been left out when she had been created. She was unfinished. What had been left out? Was it her soul? Was it her heart? Was she Undine? No. Was she Lilith? No. All the same she belonged to the fairy-tale world; to the Hans Andersen world, or to Perrault. The Princess without ... without what? She was the Sleeping Beauty in the wood, who had woken up and remembered nothing, and could never recover from the long trance. She would never be the same again. Never really awake in the world. And yet she had brought nothing back from fairyland except her looks. "She reminds me," he said, "of a line of Robert Lytton's: 'All her looks are poetry and all her thoughts are prose.' It is not that she is prosaic, but she is muffled. You see, during that long slumber which lasted a hundred years----" Rudd had now quite forgotten my presence and was talking or, rather, murmuring to himself. He was composing aloud. "During that long exile which lasted a hundred years, and passed in a flash, she had no dreams." "You mean she has no heart," I said. "No, not that," he answered, "heart as much as you like. She is kind. She is affectionate. But no passion, no dreams. Above all, no dreams. That is what she is. The Princess without any dreams. Do you think that would do as a title? No, it is not quite right. _The Sleeping Beauty in the World?_ No. Why did Rostand use the title, _La Princesse Lointaine_? That would have done. No, that is not quite right either. She is not far away. She is here. She looks far away and isn't. I must think about it. It will come." Then, quite abruptly, he asked me what I imagined the garden of the hotel looked like. I said that I had never been here before and that I had only heard descriptions of the place from my acquaintances and from my servant, but I imagined the end of the garden, where I had often walked, to be rather like a Russian landscape. I had never been to Russia, but I had read Russian books, and what I imagined to be a rather untidy piece of long grass, fringed with a few birch trees and some firs, the whole rather baked and dry, reminded me of the descriptions in Tourgenev's books. Rudd said it was not like Russia. Russia had so much more space. So much more atmosphere. This little garden might be a piece of Scotland, might be a piece of Denmark, but it was not Russian. I asked him whether he had been to Russia. Not in the flesh, he said, but in the spirit he had lived there for years. Perhaps he wanted to see how much the second-hand impressions of a blind man were worth. He soon reverted to the original subject of our talk. "Why is Miss Brandon not married?" he said. I said I knew nothing about her, nothing about her life. I presumed her parents were dead. She was travelling with her aunt. They came here every year for her aunt's rheumatism. Mrs. Lennox had a house in London. She was a widow, not very well off, I thought. I told him I knew nothing of London life. I have lived in Italy for the last twenty years. I very seldom went to London, only, in fact, to see Kennaway. I told him he must find out about Miss Brandon's early history himself. "She is very silent," he said. "Mrs. Lennox is very talkative," I told him. "What can I call it?" he asked, in an agony of impatience. "She has every beauty, every grace, except that of expression." "_The Dumb Belle?_" The words escaped me and I immediately regretted them. "No," he said, quite seriously, "she is not dumb, that is just the point. She talks, but she cannot express herself. Or rather, she has nothing to express. At least, I think she has nothing to express: or what she has got to express is not what we think it is. I imagine a story like Pygmalion and Galatea. Somebody waking her to life and then finding her quite different from what the stone image seemed to promise, from what it _did_ promise. At any rate I have got my subject and I am extremely grateful. It is a wonderful subject." "Henry James," I ventured. "Ah, James," said Rudd, "yes, James, a wonderful intellect, but a critic, not a novelist. The French could do it. What would they have called it? _La Princesse désenchantée,_ or _La Belle revenue du Bois_? You can't say that in English." "Nor in French either," I thought to myself, but I said aloud, "_Out of the Wood_ would suggest quite a different kind of book." "A very different kind of book," said Rudd, quite gravely. "The kind of book that sells by the million." Rudd then left me. He was enchanted with the idea of having something to write about. I felt that a good title for his novel would be _Eurydice Half-regained_, but I was diffident about suggesting a title to him, besides which I felt he would not like it. Miss Brandon, he would explain, was not like Eurydice, and if she was, she had forgotten her experiences beyond the Styx. CHAPTER II I am going to divide my record into chapters just as if I were writing a novel. The length of the chapters will be entirely determined by my inclination at the moment of writing. When I am tired the chapter will end. I don't know if this is what novelists do. It does not matter, as I am not writing a novel. I know it is not what Rudd does. He told me he planned out his novel before writing a line, and decided beforehand on the length of each chapter, but that he often made them longer in the first draft, and then eliminated. If you want to be terse, he said, you must not start by trying to be terse, by leaving out. You must say everything _first_. You can rub out afterwards. He told me he worked in charcoal, as it were, at first. I shall not work in charcoal. I have no plan. I asked Princess Kouragine what Rudd was like. She said he had something rather prim and dapper about him. I was quite wrong about his appearance. He wears a black tie. Princess Kouragine said, "_Il a l'air comme tout le monde, plutôt comme un médecin de campagne._" I asked her if she liked him. She said she did not know. She said he was agreeable, but she found no real pleasure in his society. "You see," she said, "I like the society of my equals, I hate being with my superiors; that is why I hate being with royalties, authors and artists. Mr. Rudd can talk of nothing except his art, and I like Tauchnitz novels that one can read without any trouble. I hate realistic novels, especially in English." I told her his novels were more often fantastic, with a certain amount of psychology in them. "That is worse," she said, "I am old-fashioned. It is no use to try and convert me. I like Trollope and Ouida." I offered to lend her a novel by Rudd, but she refused. "I would rather not have read it," she said. "It would make me uncomfortable when I talked to him. As it is, as the idiot who has read nothing newer than Ouida, I am quite comfortable." I said he was writing something now which I thought would interest her. I told her how Rudd was making Miss Brandon the pivot of a story. "Ah!" she said. "He told me he was writing something for his own pleasure. I will read _that_ book." I said he did not intend to publish it. "He will publish it," she said. "It will be very interesting. I wonder what he will make of Jean Brandon. I know her well. I have known her for five years. They come here every year. They stay a long time. It is economical. She is a good girl. I like her. _Elle me plaît_." I asked whether she was pretty. The Princess said she was changeable--_journalière, "Elle a souvent mauvaise mine."_ Not tall enough. A beautiful skin like ivory, but too pale. Eyes. Yes, she had eyes. Most remarkable eyes. You could not tell whether they were blue or grey. Graceful. Pretty hands. Badly dressed, but from poverty and economy more than from _mauvais goût_. A very _English_ beauty. "You will probably tell me she is Scotch or Irish. I don't care. I don't mean Keapsake or Gainsborough, nor Burne-Jones, but English all the same. But I can't describe her. She has charm and it escapes one. She has beauty, but it doesn't fit into any of the categories. "One feels there is a lamp inside her which has gone out, for the time being, at any rate. She reminds me of some lines of Victor Hugo: "Et les plus sombres d'entre nous Ont eu leur aube éblouissante." "I can imagine her having been quite dazzling when she was a young girl. I can imagine her still being dazzling now if someone were to light the lamp. It could be lit, I know. Once, two years ago, at the races here at Bavigny, I saw her excited. She wanted a friend to win a steeplechase and he won. She was transfigured. At that moment I thought I had seldom seen anyone more _éblouissante_. Her face shone as though it had been transparent." Of course the poor girl was unhappy, and why was she unhappy? The reason was a simple one, she was poor, and Mrs. Lennox economized and used her as an economy. "You see that the poor girl is obliged to make _de petites économies_ in her clothes. She suffers from it I'm sure. Who wouldn't? This all comes from your silly system of marriage in England. You let two totally inexperienced beings with nothing to help them settle the question on which the whole of their lives is to depend. You let a girl marry her first love. It is too absurd. It never lasts. I do not say that marriages in our country do not often turn out very badly. No one knows that better than I do, Heaven knows; but I say that at least we give the poor children a chance. We at least do not build marriages on a foundation which we know to be unsound beforehand, or not there at all. We do not let two people marry when we know that the circumstances cannot help leading to disaster." I said I did not think there was much to choose between the two systems. In France the young people had the chance of making a satisfactory marriage; in our country the young people had the chance of marrying whom they chose, of making the right choice. It was sometimes successful. Besides, when there were real obstacles the marriages did not as a rule come off. Mrs. Lennox had told me that Miss Brandon had been engaged when she was nineteen to a man in the army. He was too poor. The engagement had been broken off. The man had left the army and gone to the colonies, and there the matter had remained. I didn't think she would have been happier if she had been married off to a _parti_. "She would not have been poor," said Princess Kouragine. "And she would have been more independent. She would have had a home." She said she did not attach an enormous importance to riches, but she did attach great importance to real poverty, especially to poverty in the class of people with whom Miss Brandon lived. She said the worst kind of poverty was to live with people richer than yourself. It was a continual strain, she knew it from experience. She had been through it herself soon after she was married, after the first time her husband had been ruined. And nobody who had not been through it knew what it meant, the constant daily fret. "The little subterfuges. Having to think of every cab and every box of cigarettes. Not that I thought of those," she said. "But it was clothes which were the trouble. I can see that that poor Jean suffers in the same way. And then, what a life! To spend all one's time with that Mrs. Lennox, who is as hard as a stone and ruthlessly selfish. She does not want Jean to marry. Jean is too useful to her." I said I wondered why she had not married. Surely lots of men must have wanted to marry her. Princess Kouragine said that Mrs. Lennox was quite capable of preventing it. She rarely took her out in London. She brought her to Haréville when the London season began and they stayed here two months. It was cheaper. In the winter they went to Florence or Nice. I said I wondered whether she was still faithful to the man she had been engaged to, and what he was like. Princess Kouragine said she did not know him. She had never seen him, but she had heard he was charming, _très bien_, but he hadn't a penny. It appeared, however, that he had a relation, possibly an uncle, who was well off, and who would probably leave him money. But he was not an old man and might live for years. I said that perhaps Miss Brandon was waiting for him. "Perhaps," said Princess Kouragine, "but she was only nineteen when they were engaged, and he has been away for the last five years. People change. She is no longer now what she was then, nor he, probably." She did not think this episode was a real obstacle; she was convinced Miss Brandon did not feel bound, but she thought she had not yet met anyone whom she felt she would like to marry. Nor was it likely for her to do so considering the _milieu_ in which she lived, in which she was obliged to live. Mrs. Lennox liked the continental, international world. The world in which everyone spoke English and hardly anyone was English. It was not even the best side of the continental world she liked. She did not mean it was the shady side, not the world of adventurers and gamblers, but the world of international "culture." All the intellectual snobs were drawn instinctively to Mrs. Lennox. People who discovered new musicians, new novelists, and new painters, who suddenly pronounced as a dogma that Beethoven couldn't compose and that the old masters did not know how to draw, and that there was a new music, a new science, and, above all, a new religion. "She is always surrounded just by those one or two men and women '_qui rendent l'Europe insupportable et qui la gobent_,' they swallow everything in her, her views on art, her dyed hair, and her ridiculous hats. Is it likely that Miss Brandon, the daughter of an old general, brought up in the Highlands of Scotland, and passionately fond of outdoor life, would find a husband among people who were discussing all day long whether Wagner was not better as a writer than a musician? She never complains of it, poor child, but I know quite well that she is _écoeurée_. She has had five years of it. Her father died five years ago. Till he died she used to look after him and that was probably not an easy life, either, as I believe he was a very exacting old man. Her mother had died years before, and she had no brothers and no sisters. No relations who were friends, and few women friends. She is alone in a world she hates." I said I wondered that she had not left it. Girls often struck out a line for themselves now and found occupations. Princess Kouragine said that Miss Brandon was not that sort of girl. She was shy and apathetic as far as that kind of thing was concerned, apathetic now about everything. She had just given in. What else could she do? Where could she live? She had not a penny. "You see if a sensible marriage had been arranged for her, all this would not have happened. She would have now had a home and children." I said that perhaps she was being faithful to the young man. Princess Kouragine said I could take it from her that she had never loved, "_elle n'a jamais aimé_" She had never had a _grande passion_. I asked the Princess whether she thought her capable of such a thing. She seemed so quiet. "You have never seen the lamp lit," said the Princess, "but I have; only for one moment, it is true, but I shall never forget it." She wondered what Rudd would make of the character. He hardly knew her. Did he seem to understand her? I said I thought he spun people out of his own inner consciousness. A face gave him an idea and he made his own character, but he thought he was being very analytical, and that all he created was based on observation. "He certainly observes nothing," said the Princess. She asked who would be the hero. I said we had not got as far as the hero when he had discussed it with me. "And what will he call the novel?" she asked. Ah, that was just the question. He had discussed that at length. He had not found a title that satisfied him. He had got so far as "_The Princess without any Dreams_." "_Dieu qu'il est bête_," she said. "_Cette enfant ne fait que rêver_." She told me I must get Rudd to discuss it with me again. "Perhaps he will talk to me about it, too. I will make him do so, in fact. It will not be difficult. Then we will compare notes. It will be most amusing. The Princess without any dreams, indeed! He might just as well call her the Princess without any eyes!" CHAPTER III This afternoon I was sitting on a bench in the most secluded part of the park when I heard someone approach, and Miss Brandon asked if she might sit down near me and talk a little. Mrs. Lennox had gone for a motor drive with Mr. Rudd. "He is our new friend," she explained. "That is to say, more Aunt Netty's friend than mine." I asked her whether she liked him. "Yes, but he doesn't take much notice of me. He asks me questions, but never waits for the answer. I feel he has made up his mind about me, that I am labelled and pigeon-holed. He loves Aunt Netty." I asked what they talked about. "Books," she said. "His books, I suppose," I said. I wondered whether Mrs. Lennox had read them. I could feel Miss Brandon guessing my inward question. "Aunt Netty _is_ very clever," she said. "She makes people enjoy themselves, especially those kind of people.... Last night he dined at our table, and so did Mabel Summer. You don't know her? You must know her, you would like her. She is going away to-morrow, for a fortnight to the Lakes, but she is coming back then. We nearly laughed at one moment. It was awful. They were discussing Balzac, and Aunt Netty said that Balzac was a snob like all--and she was just going to say like all novelists, when she caught herself up and said: 'like Thackeray.' Mr. Rudd said that Balzac and Thackeray had nothing in common, and Mabel, who had caught my eye, and I, were speechless. Just for a moment I was shaking, and Mr. Rudd looked at us. It was awful, but Mabel recovered and said she didn't think we could realize now the kind of atmosphere that Thackeray lived in." I said I didn't suppose that Rudd had noticed anything. He didn't seem to me to notice that kind of thing. She agreed, but said he had moments of lucidity which were unexpected and disconcerting. "For one second," she said, "he suspected we were laughing at him. Aunt Netty manages him perfectly. He loves her. She knows exactly what to say to him. He knows she is not critical. I think he is rather suspicious. How funny clever men are!" she said, after a pause. I said she really meant to say, "How stupid clever men are!" I reminded her of the profound saying of one of Kipling's women, that the stupidest woman could manage a clever man, but it took a very clever woman to manage a fool. She said she had always found the most disconcerting element in stupid people--or people who were thought to be stupid--was their sudden flashes of lucidity, when they saw things quite plainly. Clever men didn't have these flashes, but the curious thing was that Rudd did. I said I thought this was because, apart from his literary talent, which was an accomplishment like conjuring or acting, quite separate from the rest of his personality, Rudd was not a clever man. All his cleverness went into his books. I said I thought there were two kinds of writers: those who were better than their books, and of whom the books were only the overflow, and those who put every drop of their being into the books and were left with a dry and uninteresting shell. She said she thought she had only met that kind. "Aunt Netty," she said, "loves all authors and it's odd considering----" She stopped, but I ended her sentence: "She has never read a book in her life." Miss Brandon laughed and said I was unfair. "Reading tires her. I don't think anyone has time to read a book after they are eighteen. I haven't. But I feel I am a terrible wet blanket to all Aunt Netty's friends. I can't even pretend to be enthusiastic. You see I like the other sort of people so much better." I said I was afraid the other sort of people were poorly represented here just now. "We have another friend," she said, "at least, I have." "Also a new friend?" I asked. "I have known him in a way a long time," she said. "He is a Russian called Kranitski. We met him first two years ago at Florence. He was looking after his mother, who was ill and who lived at Florence. We used to meet him often, but I never got to know him. We never spoke to each other. We saw him, too, in the distance once on the Riviera." I asked what he was like. "He is all lucid intervals," she said, "it is frightening. But he is very easy to get on with. Of course I don't know him at all really. I have only seen him twice. But one didn't have to plough through the usual commonplaces. He began at once as if we had known each other for years, and I felt myself doing the same thing." I asked what he was. She didn't quite know. I said I thought I knew the name. It reminded me of something, but I certainly did not know him. Miss Brandon said she would introduce me to him. I asked what he looked like. "Oh, an untidy, comfortable face," she said. "He is always smiling. He is not at all international. He is like a dog. The kind of dog that understands you in a minute. The extraordinary thing is that after the first time we had a talk I felt as if I knew him intimately, as if I had met him on some other planet, as if we were going on, not as if we were beginning. I suddenly found myself telling him things I had never told anyone. Of course, this does happen to one sometimes with perfect strangers, at least it does to me. Don't you think it easy sometimes to pour out confidences to a perfect stranger? But I don't expect people give you the opportunity. They tell you things." I said this did happen sometimes, probably because people thought I didn't count, and that as I couldn't see their faces they needn't tell the truth. "I would find it as difficult to tell you a lie," she said, "as to tell a lie on the telephone. You know how difficult that is. I should think people tell you the truth as they do in the Confessional. The priest shuts his eyes, doesn't he?" I said I believed this was the case. "This Russian is a Catholic," she said. "Isn't that rare for a Russian?" I said he was, perhaps, a Pole. The name sounded Polish. No, he had told her he was not a Pole. He was not a man who explained. Explanations evidently bored him. He was not a soldier, but he had been to the Manchurian War. He had lived in the Far East a great deal, and in Italy. Very little in Russia apparently. He had come to Haréville for a rest cure. "I asked him," she said, "if he had been ill, and he said something had been cut out of his life. He had been pruned. The rest of him went on sprouting just the same." I said I supposed he spoke English. Yes, he had had an English nurse and an English governess. He had once been to England as a child for a few weeks to the Isle of Wight. He knew no English people. He liked English books. "Byron, and Jerome K. Jerome?" I suggested. "No," she said, "Miss Austen." I asked whether he had made Mrs. Lennox's acquaintance. Yes, they had talked a little. "Aunt Netty talked to him about Tolstoi. Tolstoi is one of Mr. Rudd's stock topics." I said I supposed she had retailed Rudd's views on the Russian. Was he astonished? "Not a bit. I could see he had heard it all before," she said. "He was angelic. He shook his ears now and then like an Airedale terrier. Aunt Netty doesn't want him. Mr. Rudd is enough for her and she is enjoying herself. She always finds someone here. Last year it was a composer." "Does Princess Kouragine know him?" I asked. No, she didn't. She had never met him, but she knew of him. I asked what Mr. Rudd thought about Princess Kouragine. "Mr. Rudd and Aunt Netty discuss her for hours. He has theories about her. He began by saying she had the Slav indifference. Then Aunt Netty said she was French. But Mr. Rudd said it was catching. People who lived in Ireland became Irish, and people who lived in Russia became Russian. Then Aunt Netty said Princess Kouragine had lived in France and Italy. Mr. Rudd said she had caught the microbe, and that she was a woman who lived only by half-hours. He meant she was only alive for half-an-hour at a time." At that moment someone walked up the path. "Here is Monsieur Kranitski," she said. She introduced us. "I have been walking to the end of the park," he said. "It is curious, but that side of the park with the dry lawn-tennis court, those birch trees and some straggling fir trees on the hill and the long grass, reminds me of a Russian garden which I used to know very well." I said that when people had described that same spot to me I had imagined it like the descriptions of places in Tourgenev's books. He said I was quite right. I said it was a wonderful tribute to an author's powers that he could make the character of a landscape plain, not only to a person who had never been in his country, but even to a blind man. Kranitski said that Tourgenev described gardens very well, and a particular kind of Russian landscape. "What I call the orthodox kind. I hear James Rudd, the writer, is staying here. He has a gift for describing places: Italian villages, journeys in France, little canals at Venice, the Campagna." "You like his books?" I asked. "Some of them; when they are fantastic, yes. When he is psychological I find them annoying, but one says I am wrong." "He is too complicated," Miss Brandon said. "He spoils things by seeing too much, by explaining too much." I asked Kranitski if he was a great novel reader. He said he liked novels if they were very good, like Miss Austen and Henry James, or else very, very bad ones. He could not read any novel because it was a novel. On the other hand he could read any detective story, good, bad or middling. Miss Brandon asked him if he would like to know Rudd. "Is he very frightful?" he asked. I said I did not think he was at all alarming. Yes, he said, he would like to make his acquaintance. He had never met an English author. "You won't mind his explaining the Russian character to you?" I said. Kranitski said he would not mind that, and that as his mother was Italian, and as he had lived very little in Russia and spoke Russian badly, perhaps Mr. Rudd would not count him as a Russian. Miss Brandon said that would make the explanation more complicated still. CHAPTER IV Life begins very early in the morning here. The water-drinkers and the bathers begin their day at half-past six. My day does not begin till half-past seven, as I don't drink many glasses of the water. At seven o'clock the village bell rings for Mass. It was some days after the conversations I recorded in my last chapter I woke one morning early at half-past six and got up. I asked my servant, Henry, to lead me to the village church. I went in and sat down at the bottom of the aisle. Early Mass had not yet begun. The church seemed to me empty. But from a corner I heard the whispered mutter of a confession. Presently two people walked past me, the priest and the penitent, I surmised. Someone walked upstairs. A boy's footsteps then clattered past me. The church bell was rung. Someone walked downstairs and up the aisle; the priest again, I thought. Then Mass began. Towards the end someone again walked up the aisle. I remained sitting till the end. At the door, outside the church, someone greeted me. It was Kranitski. He walked back with me to the hotel. He asked me whether I was a Catholic. I told him that Catholic churches attracted me, but that I was an agnostic. He seemed slightly astonished at this; astonished at the attraction in my case, I supposed. He said something which indicated surprise. I told him I could not explain it. It was certainly not the exterior panoply and trappings of the church which attracted me, for of those I saw nothing. Nor was it the music, for although I was not a musician, my long blindness had made me acutely sensitive to sound, and the sounds in churches were often, I found, painful. I asked him if he was a Catholic. "I was born a Catholic," he said, "but for years I have not been _pratiquant_, until I came here. Not for seven years." "You have not been inside a church for seven years?" I said. "Oh yes," he said, "inside a church very often." I said most people lost their faith as young men. Sometimes it came back. "I was not like that," he said, "I never lost my faith, not for a day, not for an hour." I said I didn't understand. "There were reasons--an obstacle," he said. "But now they are not there any more. Now I am once more inside." "Inside what?" I asked. "The church. During those seven years I was outside." "But as you went to church when you liked," I said, "I do not see the difference." "I cannot explain it to you," he said. "You would not understand. At least, you would understand if you knew and I could explain, only it would be too long. But as it was it was like knowing you couldn't have a bath if you wanted one--like feeling always starved. You see I am naturally believing. If I had not been, it would have been no matter. I cannot help believing. Many times I should have liked not to believe. Many times I was envying people who feel you go out like a candle when you die. I am not _mystique_ or anything like that; but something at the back of my mind is keeping on saying to me: 'You know it _is_ true,' just as in some people there is something inside them which is keeping on saying: 'You know it is _not_ true.' And yet I couldn't do otherwise. That is to say, I resolved not to do otherwise. Life is complicated. Things are so mixed up sometimes. One has to sacrifice what one most cares for. At least, I had to. I was caring for my religion more than I can describe, but I had to give it up. No, that is wrong, I didn't _have to_, but I gave it up. It was all very embarrassing. But now the obstacle is not there. I am free. It is a relief." "But if you never lost your faith and went on going to church, and _could_ go to church whenever you liked, I cannot see what you had to give up. I don't see what the obstacle prevented." "To explain you that I should have to tell too long a story," he said. "I will tell you some day if you have patience to listen. Not now." We had got back to the park. I went into the pavilion to drink the water. I asked Kranitski if he was going to have a glass. "No," he said, "I do not need any waters or any cure. I am cured already, but I need a long rest to forget it all. You know sometimes after illness you regret the _maladie_, and I am still a little bit dizzy. After you have had a tooth out, in spite of the relief from pain you mind the hole." He went into the hotel. Later in the morning I met Princess Kouragine. She asked me how Rudd's novel was getting on. I said I had not seen him, and had had no talk with him about it. I told her I had made the acquaintance of Kranitski. "I too," she said. "I like him. I never knew him before, but I know a little of his history. He has been in love a very long time with someone I knew--and still know, I won't say her name. I don't want to rake up old scandals, but she was Russian, and she lived, a long time ago, in Rome, and she was unhappy with her husband, whom I always liked, and thought extremely _comme il faut_, but they were not suited." "Why didn't she divorce him?" I asked. "The children," she said; "three children, two boys and a girl, and she adored them, so did the father, and he would never have let them go, nor would she have left them for anyone in the world." "If she lived at Rome, I may have met her," I said. "It is quite possible," said the Princess. "My friend was a charming person, a little vague, very gentle, very graceful, very musical, very attractive." "Is the husband still alive?" I asked. "Yes, he is alive. They do not live at Rome any more, but in the Caucasus, and at Paris in the winter. I saw them both in Paris this winter." I asked if the Kranitski episode was still going on. "It is evidently over," said Princess Kouragine. "Why?" I asked. "Because he is happy. _Il n'a plus des yeux qui regardent au delà._" "Was he very much in love with her?" I asked. "Yes, very much. And she too. He will be a character for Mr. Rudd," she went on, "I saw him talking to him yesterday, with Mrs. Lennox and Jean. Jean likes him. She looks better these last two days." I said I had noticed she seemed more lively. "Ah, but physically she looks different. That child wants admiration and love." "Love?" I said. "Won't it be rather unfortunate if she looks for love in that quarter? He won't love again, will he? Or not so soon as this." "You are like the people who think one can only have measles once," she said. "One can have it over and over again, and the worse you have it once, the worse you may get it again. He is just in the most susceptible state of all." I said they both seemed to me in the same position. They were both of them bound by old ties. "That is just what will make it easier." I asked whether there would be any other obstacles to a marriage between them, such as money. Princess Kouragine said that Kranitski ought to be quite well off. "There was no obstacle of that kind," she said. "He is a Catholic, but I do not suppose that will make any difference." "Not to Miss Brandon," I said, "nor really to her aunt: Mrs. Lennox might, I think, look upon it as a kind of obstacle; but a little more an obstacle than if he was a radical and a little less of one than if he was socialist." She said she did not think that Mrs. Lennox would like her niece to marry anyone. "But if they want to get married nothing will stop them. That girl has a character of iron." "And he?" I asked. "He has got some character." "Would the other person mind--the lady at Rome?" "She probably will mind, but she would not prevent it. _Elle est foncièrement bonne._ Besides which she knows that it is over, there is nothing more to be said or done. She is _philosophe_ too. A sensible woman. She insisted on marrying her husband. She was in love with him directly she came out, and they were married at once. He would have been an excellent husband for almost anyone else except for her, and if she had only waited two years she would have known this herself. As it was, she married him, and found she had married someone else. The inevitable happened. She is far too sensible to complain now. She knows she has made a _gâchis_ of her life, and that she only has herself to thank. As it is, she has her children and she is devoted to them. She will not want to make a _gâchis_ of Kranitski's life as well as of her own, and she nearly did that too. If he marries and is happy she ought to be pleased, and she will be." "And what about the young man who was engaged to Miss Brandon?" I asked. "I do not give that story a thought," said the Princess. "They were probably in the same situation towards each other as the Russian couple I told you of were before they were married, only Jean had the good fortune to do nothing in a hurry. She is probably now profoundly grateful. How can a girl of eighteen know life? How can she even know her own mind?" "It depends on the young man," I said. "We know nothing about him." "Yes, we know nothing about him; but that probably shows there is nothing to know. If there were something to know we should know it by now. It was all so long ago. They are both different people now, and they probably know it." I said I would not like to speculate or even hazard a guess on such a matter. It might be as she said, but the contrary might just as well be true. I did not think Miss Brandon was a person who would change her mind in a hurry. I thought she was one of the rare people who did know her own mind. I could imagine her waiting for years if it was necessary. As I was saying this, Princess Kouragine said to me: "She is walking across the park now with Kranitski. They have sat down on a seat near the music kiosk. They are talking hard. The lamp is being lit--she looks ten years younger than she did last week, and she has got on a new hat." CHAPTER V During the rest of that day I saw nobody. I gathered there were races somewhere, and Mrs. Lennox had taken a large party. Just before dinner I got a message from Rudd asking whether he might dine at my table. I do not dine in the big dining-room, as I find the noise and the bustle trying, but in a smaller room where some of the visitors have their _petit déjeuner_. So we were alone and had the room to ourselves. I asked him if he had been working. He said he had been making notes, plans and sketches, but he could not get on unless he could discuss his work with someone. "The story is gradually taking shape," he said. "I haven't made up my mind what the setting is to be. But I have got the kernel. My story is what I told you it would be. The Sleeping Beauty in the Wood, but when the Prince wakes her up she is no longer the same person as she was when she went to sleep. The enchantment has numbed her. She will have none of the Fairy Prince; she doesn't recognize him as a Fairy Prince, and she lets him go away. As soon as he is gone she regrets what she has done and begins to hope he will come back some day. Time passes and he does come back, but he has forgotten her and he does not recognize her. Someone else falls in love with her, and she thinks she loves him; but, at the first kiss he gives her, the forest closes round her and she falls asleep again." I asked him if it was going to be a fairy-tale. He said, No, a modern story with perhaps a mysterious lining to it. He imagined this kind of story. A girl brought up in romantic surroundings. She meets a boy who falls in love with her. This, in a way, wakens her to life, but she will not marry him; and he goes away for years. Time passes. She leads a numbed existence. She travels, and somewhere abroad she meets the love of her youth again. He has forgotten her and loves someone else. Someone else wants to marry her. They are engaged to be married. But as soon as things get as far as this the man finds that in some inexplicable way she is different, and _he_ breaks off the engagement, and she goes on living as she did before, apparently the same, but in reality dead. "Then," I said, "she always loves the Fairy Prince of her youth." He said: "She thinks she loves him when it is too late, but in reality she never loves anyone. She is only half-awake in life. She never gets over the enchantment which numbs her for life." I asked what would correspond to the enchantment in real life. He said perhaps the romantic surroundings of her childhood. I said I thought he had not meant her to be a romantic character. "No more she is," he explained. "The romance is all from outside. She looks romantic, but she isn't. She is like a person who has been bewitched. She always thinks she is going to behave like an ordinary person, but she can't. She has no dreams. She would like to marry, to have a home, to be comfortable and free, but something prevents it. When the young man proposes to her she feels she can never marry him. As soon as he is gone, she regrets having done this, and imagines that if he came back she would love him." "And when he does come back, does she love him?" I asked. "She thinks she does, but that is only because he has forgotten her. If he hadn't forgotten her, and had asked her to marry him, she would have said 'No' a second time. Then when the other person who is in love with her wants to marry her, she _thinks_ she is in love with him; she thinks _he_ is the Fairy Prince; but as soon as they are engaged, _he_ feels that his love has gone. It has faded from the want of something in _her_ which he discovers at the very first kiss; he breaks off the engagement, and she is grateful at being set free, and glad to go back to her forest." I asked if she is unhappy when it is over. He said, "Yes, she is unhappy, but she accepts it. She is not broken-hearted because she never loved him. She realizes that she can't love and will never love, and accepts the situation." I said that I saw no mysterious lining in the story as told that way. He said there was none; but the lining would come in the manner the story was told. He would try and give the reader the impression that she had come into touch with the fairy world by accident and that the adventure had left a mark that nothing could alter. She had no business to have adventures in fairy land. She had strayed into that world by mistake. She was not native to it, although she looked as if she were. I said I thought there ought to be some explanation of how and why she got into touch with the fairy world. He said it was perhaps to be found in the surroundings of her childhood. She perhaps inherited some strange spiritual, magic legacy. But whatever it was it must come from the _outside_. Perhaps there was a haunted wood near her home, and she was forbidden to go into it. Perhaps the legend of the place said that anyone of her family who visited that wood before they were fifteen years old, went to sleep for a hundred years. Perhaps she visited the wood and fell asleep and had a dream. That dream was the hundred years' sleep, but she forgot the dream as soon as she was awake. I asked him if he thought this story fitted on to Miss Brandon's character or to the circumstances of her life. He said he knew little about the circumstances of her life. Mrs. Lennox had told him that her niece had once nearly married someone, but that it had been an impossible marriage for many reasons, and that she did not think her niece regretted it. That several people had wanted to marry her abroad, but that she had never fallen in love. "As to her character, I am confirmed," he said, "in what I thought about her the first time I saw her. All her looks are poetry and all her thoughts are prose. She is practical and prosaic and unimaginative and quite passionless. But I should not be in the least surprised if she married a fox-hunting squire with ten thousand a year. All that does not matter to me. I am not writing her story, but the story of her face. What might have been her story. And not the story of what her face looks like, but the story of what her face means. The story of her soul, which may be very different from the story of her life. It is the story of a numbed soul. A soul that has visited places which it had no business to visit and had had to pay the price in consequence. "She reminds me of those lines of Heine: "Sie waren langst gestorben und wussten es selber kaum." "That is, of course, only one way of writing the story I have planned to you. I shall not begin at the beginning at any rate. Perhaps I shall never write the story at all. You see, I do not intend to publish it in any case. People would say I was making a portrait. As if an artist ever made a portrait from one definite real person. People give him ideas. But on the other hand it is my holiday, and I do not want to have all the labour of planning a real story, and at the same time I want an occupation. This will keep me busy. I shall amuse myself by sketching the story as I see it now." I asked who the hero would be. "The man who wants to marry her and whom she consents to marry will be a foreigner," he said. "An Italian?" I asked. "No," he said, "not an Italian. Not a southerner. A northerner. Possibly a Norwegian. A Norwegian or a Dane. That would be just the kind of person to be attracted by this fairy-tale-looking, in reality, prosaic being." "And who would the original Fairy Prince be?" I asked. "He would be an ordinary Englishman. Any of the young men I saw here would do for that. The originality of his character would be in this: that he would _look_ and be considered the type of dog-like fidelity and unalterable constancy, and in reality he would forget all about her directly he met someone else he loved. He would have been quite faithful till then. Faithful for two or three years. Then he would have met someone else: a married woman. Someone out of his reach, and he would have been passionately devoted to her and have forgotten all about the Fairy Princess. "The Norwegian would be attracted by her very apathy and seeming coldness and aloofness. He would imagine that this would all melt and vanish away at the first kiss. That she would come to life like Galatea. It would be the opposite of Galatea. The first kiss would turn her to stone once more. "Then being a very nice honest fellow he would be miserable. He would not know what to do. He would be a sailor perhaps, and be called away. That would have to be thought about." Then we talked of other things. I asked Rudd if he had made Kranitski's acquaintance. He said, Yes, he had. He was quite a pleasant fellow, no brains and very commonplace and rather reactionary in his ideas; not politically, he meant, but intellectually. He had not got further than Miss Austen and he was taken in by Chesterton. All that was very crude. But he was amiable and good-natured. I said Princess Kouragine liked him. "Ah," he said, "that is an interesting type. The French character infected by the Slav microbe. "What a powerful thing the Slav microbe is; more powerful even than the Irish microbe. Her French common sense and her Latin logic had been stricken by that curious Russian intellectual malaria. She will never get it out of her system." I asked him if he thought Kranitski had the same malaria. "It is less noticeable in him," Rudd said, "because he _is_ Russian; there is no contrast to observe, no conflict. He is simply a Slav of a rather conventional type. His Slavness would simply reveal itself in his habits; his incessant cigarette-smoking; his good head for cards--he was an admirable card-player--his facility for playing the piano, and perhaps singing folk-songs--I don't know if he does, but he well might; his good-natured laziness; his social facility; his quick superficiality. There is nothing interesting psychologically there." I said that I believed his mother was Italian. Rudd said this was impossible. She might be Polish, but there was evidently no southern strain in him. Although I knew for a fact that Rudd was wrong, I could not contradict him; greatly as I wished to do so I could not bring the words across my lips. I said he had made Mrs. Lennox's acquaintance. He said he knew that he had met him in their rooms. I asked whether he thought Miss Brandon liked him. Rudd said that Miss Brandon was the same towards everyone. Profoundly indifferent, that is to say. He did not think, he was, in fact, quite certain that there was not a soul at Haréville who raised a ripple of interest on the perfectly level surface of her resigned discontent. Then we went out into the park and listened to the music. CHAPTER VI The day after Rudd dined with me I was summoned by telegram to London. My favourite sister, who is married and whom I seldom see, was seriously ill. She wanted to see me. I started at once for London and found matters better than I expected, but still rather serious. I stayed with my sister nearly a month, by which time she was convalescent. Kennaway insisted on my going back to Haréville to finish my cure. When I got back, I found all the members of the group to which I had become semi-attached still there, and I made a new acquaintance: Mrs. Summer, who had just come back from the Lakes. I know little about her. I can only guess at her appearance. I know that she is married and that she cannot be very young and that is all. On the other hand, I feel now that I know a great deal about her. We sat after dinner in the park. She is a friend of Miss Brandon's. We talked of her. Mrs. Summer said: "The air here has done her such a lot of good." She meant to say: "She is looking much better than she did when she arrived," but she did not want to talk about _looks_ to me. I said: "She must get tired of coming here year after year." Mrs. Summer said that Miss Brandon hated London almost as much. I said: "You have known her a long time?" She said: "All her life. Ever since she was tiny." I asked what her father was like. "He was very selfish, violent-tempered, and rather original. When he dined out he always took his champagne with him in a pail and in a four-wheeler. He lived in an old house in the south of Ireland. He was not really Irish. He had been a soldier. He played picquet with Jean every evening. He went up to London two months every year--not in the summer. He liked seeing the Christmas pantomime. He was devoted to Jean, but tyrannized over her. He never let her out of his sight. "When he died he left nothing. The house in Ireland was sold, and the house in London, a house in Bedford Square. I think there were illegitimate children. In Ireland he entertained the neighbours, talked politics, and shouted at his guests, and quarrelled with everyone." I presumed he was not a Radical. I was right. I said I supposed Miss Brandon could never escape. She had been engaged to be married once, but money--the want of it--made the marriage impossible. Even if there had been money she doubted. "Because of the father?" I said. "Yes, she would never have left him. She couldn't have left him." "Did the father like the young man?" "Yes, he liked him, but regarded him as quite impossible, quite out of the question as a husband." I said I supposed he would have thought anyone else equally out of the question. "Of course," she said. "It was pure selfishness----" I asked what had happened to the young man. He was in the army, but left it because it was too expensive. He went out to the Colonies--South Africa--as A.D.C. He was there now. "Still unmarried?" I asked. Mrs. Summer said he would never marry anyone else. He had never looked at anyone else. He was supposed, at one time, to have liked an Italian lady, but that was all nonsense. She felt I did not believe this. "You don't believe me," she said. "But I promise you it's true. He is that kind of man--terribly faithful; faithful and constant. You see, Jean isn't an ordinary girl. If one once loved her it would be difficult to love anyone else. She was just the same when he knew her as she is now." "Except younger." "She is just as beautiful now, at least she could be----" "If someone told her so." "Yes, if someone thought so. Telling wouldn't be necessary." "Perhaps someone will." Mrs. Summer said it was extremely unlikely she would ever meet anyone abroad who would be the kind of man. I said I thought life was a play in which every entrance and exit was arranged beforehand, and the momentous entrance and the _scène à faire_ might quite as well happen at Haréville as anywhere else. Mrs. Summer made no comment. I thought to myself: "She knows about Kranitski and doesn't want to discuss it." "The man who marries Jean would be very lucky," she said. "Jean is--well--there is no one like her. She's more than _rare_. She's _introuvable_." I said that Rudd thought she would never marry anyone. "Perhaps not," she said, "but if Mr. Rudd is right about her he will be right for the wrong reasons. Sometimes the people who see everything wrong _are_ right. It is very irritating." I asked her if she thought Rudd was always wrong. "I don't know," she said, "but he would be wrong about Jean. Wrong about you. Wrong about me. Wrong about Princess Kouragine, and wrongest of all about Netty Lennox. Perhaps his instincts as an artist _are_ right. I think people's books are sometimes written by _someone else_, a kind of planchette. All the authors I have met have been so utterly and completely wrong about everything that stared them in the face." I asked whether she liked his books. Yes, she liked them, but she thought they were written by a familiar spirit. She couldn't fit him into his books. "Then," I said, "supposing he wrote a book about Miss Brandon, however wrong he might be about her, the book might turn out to be true." She didn't agree. She thought if he wrote a book about an imaginary Miss Jones it might turn out to be right in some ways about Jean Brandon, and in some ways about a hundred other people; but if he set out to write a book about Jean it would be wrong. "You mean," I said, "he is imaginative and not observant?" "I mean," she said, "that he writes by instinct, as good actors act." She said there was a Frenchman at the hotel who had told her that he had seen a rehearsal of a complicated play, in which a great actress was acting. The author was there. He explained to the actress what he wanted done. She said: "Yes, I see this, and this, and this." Everything she said was terribly wide of the mark, the opposite of what he had meant. He saw she hadn't understood a word he had said. Then the actress got on to the stage and acted it exactly as if she understood everything. "I think," she said, "that Mr. Rudd is like that." I asked Mrs. Summer if she knew Kranitski. "Just a little," she said. "What do you think about him?" I said I liked him. "He's very quick and easy to get on with," she said. "Like all Russians." "Like all Russians, but I don't think he's quite like all Russians, at least not the kind of Russians one meets." "No, more like the Russians one doesn't meet." "Tolstoi's Russians. Yes. It's a pity they have such a genius for unhappiness." I said I thought Kranitski did not seem unhappy. "No, but more as if he had just recovered than if he was quite well." I said I thought he gave one the impression that he was capable of being very happy. There was nothing gloomy about him. "All people who are unhappy are generally very happy, too," she said, "at least they are often very...." "Gay?" I suggested. She agreed. I said I thought he was more than an unhappy person with high spirits, which one saw often enough. He gave me the impression of a person capable of _solid_ happiness, the kind of business-like happiness that comes from a fundamental goodness. "Yes, he might, be like that," she said, "only one doesn't know quite what his life has been and is." She meant she knew all too well that his life had not been one in which happiness was possible. I agreed. "One knows so little about other people." "Nothing," I said. "Perhaps he is miserable. He ought to marry. I feel he is very domestic." "I sometimes think," she said, "that the people who marry--the men I mean--are those who want the help and support of a woman, women are so far stronger and braver than men; and that those who don't marry are sometimes those who are strong enough to face life without this help. Of course, there are others who aren't either strong enough or weak enough to need it, but they don't matter." I said I supposed she thought Kranitski would be strong enough to do without marriage. "I think so," she said, "but then, I hardly know him." "Does your theory apply to women, too?" I asked. "Are there some women who are strong enough to face life alone?" She said women were strong enough to do either. In either case life was for them just as difficult. I asked if she thought Miss Brandon would be happier married or not married. "Jean would never marry unless she married the right person, the man she wanted to marry," she said. "Would the person she wanted to marry," I said, "necessarily be the right person?" "He would be more right for her, whatever the drawbacks, than anyone else." I said I supposed nearly everyone thought they were marrying the right person, and yet how strangely most marriages turned out. "Nothing better than marriage has been invented, all the same," she said, "and if people marry when they are old enough...." "To know better," I said. "Yes, it doesn't then turn out so very badly as a rule." I said that as things were at present Miss Brandon's life seemed to me completely wasted. "So it is, but it might be worse. It might be a tragedy. Supposing she married someone who became fond of someone else." "She would mind," I said. "She would mind terribly." I said I thought people always got what they wanted in the long run. If she wanted a marriage of a definite kind she would probably end by getting it. Mrs. Summer agreed in the main, but she thought that although one often did get what one wanted in the long run, it often came either too late or not quite at the moment when one wanted it, or one found when one had got it that it was after all not quite what one had wanted. "Then," I said, "you think it is no use wanting anything?" "No use," she said, "no use whatever." "You are a pessimist." "I am old enough to have no illusions." "But you want other people to have illusions?" "I think there is such a thing as happiness in the world, and that when you see someone who might be happy, missing the chance of it, it's a pity. That's all." Then I said: "You want other people to want things." "Other people? Yes," she said. "Quite dreadfully I want it." At that moment Mrs. Lennox came up to us and said: "I have won five hundred francs, and I had the courage to leave the Casino. I can't think what has happened to Jean. I have been looking for her the whole evening." I left them and went into the hotel. CHAPTER VII It was the morning after the conversation I had with Mrs. Summer that I received a message from Miss Brandon. She wanted to speak to me. Could I be, about five o'clock, at the end of the alley? I was punctual at the rendezvous. "I wanted to have a talk," she said, "to-day, if possible, because to-morrow Aunt Netty has organized an expedition to the lakes, and the day after we are all going to the races, so I didn't know when I should see you again." "But you are not going away yet, are you?" I asked. No, they were not going away, they would very likely stay on till the end of July. Then there was an idea of Switzerland; or perhaps the Mozart festival at Munich, followed by a week at Bayreuth. Mr. Rudd was going to Bayreuth, and had convinced Mrs. Lennox that she was a Wagnerite. "I thought you couldn't be going away yet--but one never knows, here people disappear so suddenly, and I wanted to see you so particularly and at once. You are going to finish your cure?" I said my time limit was another fortnight. After that I was going back to my villa at Cadenabbia. "Shall you come here next year?" I said it depended on my doctor. I asked her her plans. "I don't think I shall come back next year." There was a slight note of suppressed exultation in her voice. I asked whether Mrs. Lennox was tired of Haréville. "Aunt Netty loves it, better than ever. Mr. Rudd has promised her to come too." There was a long pause. "I can't bear it any longer," she said at last. "Haréville?" "Haréville and all of it--everything." There was another long pause. She broke it. "You talked to Mabel Summer yesterday?" I said we had had a long talk. "I'm sure you liked her?" I said I had found her delightful. "She's my oldest friend, although she's older than I am. Poor Mabel, she's had a very unhappy life." I said one felt in her the sympathy that came from experience. "Oh yes, she's so brave; she's wonderful." I said I supposed she'd had great disappointments. "More than that. Tragedies. One thing after another." I asked whether she had any children. "Her two little girls both died when they were babies. But it wasn't that. She'll tell you all about it, perhaps, some day." I said I doubted whether we would ever meet again. "Mabel always keeps up with everybody she makes friends with. She doesn't often make new friends. She told me she had made two new friends here. You and Kranitski." "She likes him?" I said. "She likes him very much. She's very fastidious, very hard to please, very critical." I said everyone seemed to like Kranitski. "Aunt Netty says he's commonplace, but that's because Mr. Rudd said he was commonplace." I said Rudd always had theories about people. "You like Mr. Rudd?" she asked. I said I did, and reminded her that she had told me she did. "If you want to know the truth," she said, "I don't. I think he's awful." She laughed. "Isn't it funny? A week ago I would have rather died than admit this to you, but now I don't care. Of course I know he's a good writer and clever and subtle, and all that--but I've come to the conclusion----" "To what conclusion?" "Well, that I don't--that I like the other sort of people better." "The stupid people?" "No." "The clever people?" "No." "What people?" "I don't know. Nice people." "People like----" "People like Mabel Summer and Princess Kouragine," she interrupted. "They are both very clever, I think," I said. "Yes, but it's not that that matters." I said I thought intelligence mattered a great deal. "When it's natural," she said. "Do you think people can become religious if they're not?" she asked suddenly. I said that I didn't feel that I could, but it certainly did happen to some people. "I'm afraid it will never happen to me," she said. "I used to hope it might never happen, but now I hope the opposite. Last night, after you went in, Aunt Netty took us to the café, and we all sat there: Mr. Rudd, Mabel, a Frenchman whose name I don't know, and M. Kranitski. The Frenchman was talking about China, and said he had stayed with a French priest there. The priest had asked him why he didn't go to Mass. The Frenchman said he had no faith. The priest had said it was quite simple, he had only to pray to the Sainte Vierge for faith, _Mon enfant, c'est bien simple: il faut demander la foi à la Sainte Vierge._ He said this, imitating the priest, in a falsetto voice. They all laughed except M. Kranitski, who said, seriously, 'Of course, you should ask the Sainte Vierge.' When the Frenchman and M. Kranitski went away, Mr. Rudd said that in matters of religion Russians were childish, and that M. Kranitski has a _simpliste_ mind." I said that Kranitski was obviously religious. "Yes," she said, "but to be like that, one must be born like that." I said that curious explosions often happened to people. I had heard people talk of divine dynamite. "Yes, but not to the people who want them to happen." I said perhaps the method of the French priest in China was the best. "Yes, if only one could do it--I can't." I said that I felt as she did about these things. "I know so many people who are just in the same state," she said. "Perhaps it's like wishing to be musical when one isn't. But after all one _does_ change, doesn't one?" I said some people did, certainly. When one was in one frame of mind one couldn't imagine what it would be like to be in another. "Yes," she said, "but I suppose there's a difference between being in one frame of mind and not wishing ever to be in another, and in being in the same frame of mind but longing to be in another." I asked if she knew how long Kranitski was going to stay at Haréville. "Oh, I don't know," she said, "it all depends." "On his health?" "I don't think so. He's quite well." "Religion must be all or nothing," I said, going back to the topic. "Yes, of course." "If I was religious I should----" She interrupted me in the middle of my sentence. "Mr. Rudd is writing a book," she said. "Aunt Netty asked him what it was about, and he said it was going to be a private book, a book that he would only write in his holidays for his own amusement. She asked him whether he had begun it. He said he was only planning it, but he had got an idea. He doesn't like Mabel Summer. He thinks she is laughing at him. She isn't really, but she sees through him. I don't mean he pretends to be anything he isn't, but she sees all there is to see, and no more. He likes one to see more. Aunt Netty sees a great deal more. I see less probably. I'm unfair to him, I know. I know I'm very intolerant. You are so tolerant." I said I wasn't really, but kept my intolerances to myself out of policy. It was a prudent policy for one in my position. "Mr. Rudd adores you," she said. "He says you are so acute, so sensitive and so sensible." I said I was a good listener. "Has he told you about his book?" I said that he had told me what he had told them. "M. Kranitski has such a funny idea about it," she said. I asked what the idea was. "He thinks he is writing a book about all of us." "Who is the heroine?" I asked. "Mabel--I think," she said. "She's so pretty. Mr. Rudd admires her. He said she was like a Tanagra, and I can see she puzzles him. He's afraid of her." "And who is the hero?" I asked. "I can't imagine," she said. "I expect he has invented one." "Why is the book private?" "Because it's about real people." "Then we may all of us be in it?" "Yes." "What made Kranitski think that?" I asked. "The way he discusses all our characters. Each person who isn't there with all the others who are there. For instance, he discusses Princess Kouragine with Aunt Netty, and Mabel with Princess Kouragine, and you with all of us; and M. Kranitski says he talks about people like a stage manager settling what actors must be cast for a particular play. He checks what one person tells him with what the others say. I have noticed it myself. He talked to me for hours about Mabel one day, and after he had discussed Princess Kouragine with us, he asked Mabel what she thought of her. That is to say, he told her what he thought, and then asked her if she agreed. I don't think he listened to what she said. He hardly ever listens. He talks in monologues. But there must be someone there to listen." "You have left out one of the characters," I said. "Have I?" "The most important one." "The hero?" "And the heroine." "He's sure to invent those." "I'm not so sure, I think you have left out the most important character." "I don't think so." "I mean yourself." "Oh no, that's nonsense; he never pays any attention to me at all. He doesn't talk about me to Aunt Netty or to the others." "Perhaps he has made up his mind." "Yes," she said slowly, "that's just it. He has made up his mind. He thinks I'm a--well, just a lay figure." I said I was certain she would not be left out if he was writing that kind of book. She laughed happily--so happily that I imagined her looking radiant and felt that the lamp was lit. I asked her why she was laughing. "I'm laughing," she said, "because in one sense my novel is over--with the ordinary happy, conventional ending--the reason I wanted to talk to you to-day was to tell you----" At that moment Mrs. Lennox joined us. Miss Brandon's voice passed quite naturally into another key, as she said: "Here is Aunt Netty." "I have been looking for you everywhere," said Mrs. Lennox, "I've got a headache, and we've so many letters to write. When we've done them you can watch me doing my patience." She said these last words as if she was conferring an undeserved reward on a truant child. CHAPTER VIII Later on in the evening, about six o'clock, as I was drinking a glass of water in the Pavilion, someone nearly ran into me and was saved from doing so by the intervention of a stranger who saw at once I was blind, although the other person had not noticed it. He shepherded me away from the danger and apologized. He said he supposed I was an Englishman, and that he was one too. He told me his name was Canning. We talked a little. He asked me if I was staying at the _Splendide_. I said I was. He said he had hoped to meet some friends of his, who he had understood were staying there too, but he could not find their names on the list of visitors. A Mrs. Lennox, he said, and her niece, Miss Brandon. Did I know them? I told him they were staying at the hotel; not at the hotel proper, but at the annexe, which was a separate building. I described to him where it was. The man's voice struck me. It was so gentle, so courteous, with a tinge of melancholy in it. I asked him if he was taking the waters? He said he hadn't settled. He liked watering places. Then our brief conversation came to an end. After dinner, Rudd fetched me and I joined the group. I was introduced to the stranger I met in the morning: Captain Canning they called him. Mrs. Summer and Princess Kouragine were sitting with them. They all talked a great deal, except Miss Brandon, who said little, and Captain Canning who said nothing. The next morning Kranitski met me at the Pavilion, and we talked a great deal. He was in high spirits and looking forward to an expedition to the lakes which Mrs. Lennox had organized. He was going with her, Miss Brandon and others. While we were sitting on a seat in the _Galeries_ the postman went by with the letters. There was a letter for Kranitski, and he asked me if I minded his reading it. He read it. There was a silence and then suddenly he laughed: a short rather mirthless chuckle. We neither of us said anything for a moment, and I felt, I knew, something had happened. There was a curious strain in his voice which seemed to come from another place, as he said: "It is time for my douche. I shall be late. I will see you this evening." He then left me. I saw nobody for the rest of the day. The next day I saw some of the group in the morning just before _déjeuner_. Rudd read out a short story to us from a magazine. After luncheon Rudd came up to my room. He wished to have a talk. He had been so busy lately. "With your book?" I asked. "No. I have had no time to touch it," he said. "It's all simmering in my mind. I daresay I shall never write it at all." I asked him who Captain Canning was. He knew all about him. He was the young man who had once been engaged to Miss Brandon, so Mrs. Lennox had told him. But it was quite obvious that he no longer cared for her. "Then why did he come here?" I asked. "He caught fever in India and wanted to consult Doctor Sabran, the great malaria expert here. He was not staying on. He was going away in a few days' time. That was one reason. There was another. Donna Maria Alberti, the beautiful Italian, had been here for a night on her way to Italy. Canning had met her in Africa and was said to be devoted to her." I asked him why he thought Canning no longer cared for Miss Brandon. "Because," he said, "if he did he would propose to her at once." "But money," I said. That was all right now. His uncle had died. He was quite well off. He could marry if he wanted to. He had not paid the slightest attention to Miss Brandon. "And she?" I asked. "He is a different person now to what he was, but she is the same. She accepts the fact." "But does she love anyone else?" "Oh! that----" "Is 'another story'?" I said. "Quite a different story," he said gravely. Rudd then left me. He was going out with Mrs. Lennox. Not long after he had gone, Canning himself came and talked to me. He said he was not staying long. He had not much leave and there was a great deal he must do in England. He had come here to see a special doctor who was supposed to know all about malaria. But he had found this doctor was no longer here. He had meant to have a holiday, as he liked watering-places--they amused him--but he found he had had so much to do in England. He kept on getting so many business letters that he would have to go away much sooner than he intended. He was going back to South Africa at the end of the month. "I have still got another year out there," he said. "After that I shall take up the career of a farmer in England, unless I settle in Africa altogether. It is a wonderful place. I have been so much away that I hardly feel at home in England now. At least, I think I shall hardly feel at home there. I only passed through London on my way out here." I told him that if he ever came to Italy he must stay with me at Cadenabbia. He said he would like to come to Italy. He had several Italian friends. One of them, Donna Maria Alberti, had been here yesterday, but she had gone. He sat for some time with me, but he did not talk much. After dinner I found the usual group, all but Miss Brandon who had got a headache, and Kranitski who was playing in the Casino. Canning joined us for a moment, but he did not stay long. The next day I saw nothing of any of the group. There were races going on not far off, and I had gathered that Mrs. Lennox was going to these. It was two or three days after this that Kranitski came up to my room at ten o'clock in the morning, and asked whether he could see me. He said he wanted to say "Good-bye," as he was going away. "My plans have been changed," he said. "I am going to London, and then probably to South Africa at the end of the month. I have been making the acquaintance of that nice Englishman, Canning. I am going with him." "Just for the sea voyage?" I asked. "No; I shall stay there for a long time. I am _Europamüde_, if you know what that means--tired of Europe." "And of Russia?" I asked. "Most of all of Russia," he said. "I want to tell you one thing," he went on. "After our meeting the other day I have been thinking you might think wrong. You are what we call in Russia very _chutki_, with a very keen scent in impressions. I want you not to misjudge. You may be thinking the obstacle has come back. It hasn't. I am free as air, as empty air. That is what I have been wanting to tell you. If you are understanding, well and good. If you are not understanding, I can tell you no more. I have enjoyed our acquaintance. We have not been knowing each other much, yet I know you very well now. I want to thank you and go." I asked him if he would like letters. I said I wrote letters on a typewriter. He said he would. I told him he could write to me if he didn't mind letters being read out. My sister generally read my letters to me. She stayed with me whenever she could at Cadenabbia. But now she was busy. He said he would write. He didn't mind who read his letters. I told him I lived all the year in Italy, and very seldom saw anyone, so that I should have little news to send him. "Tell me what you are thinking," he said. "That is all the news I want." I asked if there was anything else I could do for him. He said, "Yes, send me any books that Mr. Rudd writes. They would interest me." I promised him I would do this. Then he said "Good-bye." He went away by the seven o'clock train. That evening I saw no one. The next morning I learnt that Canning had gone too. Rudd came up to my rooms to see me, but I told Henry I was not well and he did not let him come in. The next morning I talked to Princess Kouragine at the door of the hotel. She was just leaving. I asked after Miss Brandon. "They have gone," said the Princess. "They went last night to Paris. They are going to Munich and then to Bayreuth. Jean asked me to say 'Good-bye' to you. She said she hopes you will come here next year." "Has Rudd gone with them?" I asked. "He will meet them at Bayreuth later. He does not love Mozart. And there is a Mozart festival at Munich." I asked after Miss Brandon. "The same as before," said the Princess. "The lamp was lit for a moment, but they put it out. It is a pity. The man behaved well." At that moment we were interrupted. I wanted to ask her a great deal more. But the motor-bus drove up to the door. She said "Good-bye" to me. She was going to Paris. She would spend the winter at Rome. In the afternoon I saw Mrs. Summer, but only for a moment. She told me Miss Brandon had sent me a lot of messages, and I wanted to ask her what had happened and how things stood, but she had an engagement. We arranged to meet and have a long talk the next morning. But when the next morning came, I got a message from her, saying she had been obliged to go to London at once to meet her husband. A little later in the day, I received a letter by post from my unmarried sister, saying she would meet me in Paris and we could both go back to Italy together. So I decided to do this. I saw Rudd once before I left. He dined with me on my last night. He said that his holiday was shortly coming to an end. He would spend three days at Bayreuth and then he would go back to work. "On the Sleeping Beauty?" I asked. "No, not on that." He doubted whether he would ever touch that again. The idea of it had been only a holiday amusement at first. "But now," he said, "the idea has grown. If I do it, it will have to be a real book, even if only a short one, a _nouvelle._ The idea is a fascinating one. The Sleeping Beauty awake and changed in an alien world. Perhaps I may do it some day. If I do, I will send it to you. In any case I was right about Miss Brandon. She would be a better heroine for a fairy tale than for a modern story. She is too emotionless, too calm for a modern novel." "I have got another idea," he went on, "I am thinking of writing a story about a woman who looked as delicate as a flower, and who crushed those who came into contact with her and destroyed those who loved her. The idea is only a shadow as yet. But it may come to something. In any case I must do some regular work at once. I have had a long enough holiday. I have been wasting my time. I have enjoyed it, it has done me good, and conversations are never wasted, as they are the breeding ground of ideas. Sometimes the ideas do not flower for years. But the seed is sown in talk. I am grateful to you too, and I hope I shall meet you here again next year. I can't invent anything unless I am in sympathetic surroundings." The next day I left Haréville and met my sister in Paris. We travelled to Cadenabbia together. OVERLOOKED PART II FROM THE PAPERS OF ANTHONY KAY. I Two years after I had written these few chapters, I was sent once more to Haréville. Again I went early in the season. There was nobody left of the old group I had known during my first visit. Mrs. Lennox and her niece were not there, and they were not expected. They had spent some months at Haréville the preceding year. I had spent the intervening time in Italy. I had heard once or twice from Mrs. Summer, and sometimes from Kranitski. He had gone to South Africa with Canning and had stayed there He liked the country. Miss Brandon was not yet married. Princess Kouragine I had not seen again. Rudd I had neither heard from nor of. Apparently he had published one book since he had been to Haréville and several short stories in magazines. The book was called _The Silver Sandal_, and had nothing to do with any of his experiences here or with any of the fancies which they had called up. It was, on the contrary, a semi-historical romance of a fantastic nature. During the first days of my stay here I made no acquaintances, and I was already counting on a dreary three weeks of unrelieved dullness when my doctor here introduced me to Sabran, the malaria specialist, who had been away during my first cure. Dr. Sabran, besides being a specialist with a reverberating reputation and a widely travelled man of great experience and European culture, had a different side to his nature which was not even suspected by many of his patients. Under the pseudonym of Gaspard Lautrec he had written some charming stories and some interesting studies in art and literature. Historical questions interested him; and still more, the quainter facts of human nature, psychological puzzles, mysterious episodes, unvisited by-ways, and baffling and unsolved problems in history, romance and everyday life. He was a voracious reader, and there was little that had escaped his notice in the contemporary literature of Europe. I found him an extraordinarily interesting companion, and he was kind enough, busy as I knew him to be, either to come and see me daily, or to invite me to his house. I often dined with him, and we would remain talking in his sitting-room till late in the night, while he would tell me of some of the remarkable things that had come under his notice or sometimes weave startling and paradoxical theories about nature and man. I asked him one day if he knew Rudd's work. He said he admired it, but it had always struck him as strange that a writer could be as intelligent as Rudd and yet, at the same time, so obviously _à côté_ with regard to some of the more important springs and factors of human nature. I asked him what made him think that. "All his books," he said, "any of them. I have just been reading his last book in the Tauchnitz edition, a book of stories, not short stories: _nouvelles_. It is called _Unfinished Dramas_. I will lend it you if you like." We talked of other things, and I took the book away with me when I went away. The next day I received a letter from Rudd, sending me a privately printed story (one of 500 signed copies) called _Overlooked_, which, he said, completed the series of his "Unfinished Dramas," but which he had not published for reasons which I would understand. Henry read out Rudd's new book to me. There were three stories in the book. They did not interest me greatly, and I made Henry hurry through them; but the privately printed story _Overlooked_ was none other than the story he had thought of writing when we were at Haréville together. He had written the story more or less as he had said he had intended to. All the characters of our old group were in it. Miss Brandon was the centre, and Kranitski appeared, not as a Swede but as a Russian. I myself flitted across the scene for a moment. The facts which he related were as far as I knew actually those which had occurred to that group of people during their stay at Haréville two years ago, but the deductions he drew from them, the causes he gave as explaining them, seemed to me at least wide of the mark. His conception of such of his characters as I knew at all well, and his interpretation of their motives were, in the cases in which I had the power of checking them by my own experience, I considered quite fantastically wrong. When I had finished reading the book, I sent it to Sabran, and with it the MS. I had written two years ago, and I begged the doctor to read what I had written and to let me know when he had done so, so that we might discuss both the documents and their relation one to the other and to the reality. (_Note_.--Here, in the bound copy of Anthony Kay's Papers, follows the story called _Overlooked,_ by James Rudd.) OVERLOOKED By JAMES RUDD. 1 It was the after-luncheon hour at Saint-Yves-les-Bains. The Pavilion, with its large tepid glass dome and polished brass fountains, where the salutary, and somewhat steely, waters flowed unceasingly, the Pompeian pillared "Galeries" were deserted; so were the trim park with its kiosk, where a scanty orchestra played rag-time in the morning and in the evenings; the florid Casino, which denoted the third of the three styles of architecture that distinguished the appendages of the Hôtel de La Source, where a dignified, shabby, white Louis-Philippe nucleus was still to be detected half-concealed and altogether overwhelmed by the elegant improvements and dainty enlargements of the Second Empire and the over-ripe _Art Nouveau_ excrescences of a later period. Kathleen Farrel had the park to herself. She was reading the _Morning Post_, which her aunt, Mrs. Knolles, took in for the literary articles, and which you would find on her table side by side with newspapers and journals of a widely different and sometimes, indeed, of a startling and flamboyant character; for Mrs. Knolles was catholic in her ideas and daring in her tastes. Kathleen Farrel was reading listlessly without interest. She had lived so much abroad that English news had little attraction for her, and she was no longer young enough to regret missing any of the receptions, race-meetings, garden-parties, and other social events which she was idly skimming the record of. For it was now the height of the London season, but Mrs. Knolles had let the London house in Hill Street. She always let it every summer, and in the winter as well, whenever she could find a tenant. A paragraph had caught Kathleen's eye and had arrested her attention. It began thus: "The death has occurred at Monks-well Hall of Sir James Stukely." Sir James Stukely was Lancelot Stukely's uncle. Lancelot would inherit the baronetcy and a comfortable income. He had left the army some years ago. He was at present abroad, performing some kind of secretarial duties to the Governor of Malta. He would give up that job, which was neither lucrative nor interesting, he would come home, and then---- At any rate, he had not altogether forgotten her. His monthly letters proved that. They had been unfailingly regular. Only--well, for the last year they had been undefinably different. Ever since that visit to Cairo. She had heard stories of an attachment, a handsome Italian lady, who looked like a Renaissance picture and who was said to be unscrupulous. But she really knew nothing, and Lancelot had always been so reserved, so reticent; his letters had always been so bald, almost formal, ever since their brief engagement six years before had been broken off. Ever since that memorable night in Ireland when she confessed to her father, who was more than usually violent and had drunk an extra glass of old Madeira, that she had refused to marry Lancelot. At first she had asked him not to write, and he had dutifully accepted the restriction. But later, when her father died, he had written to her and she had answered his letter. Since then he had written once a month without fail from India, where his regiment had been quartered, and then from Malta. But never had there been a single allusion to the past or to the future. The tone of them would be: "Dear Miss Farrel, We are having very good sport." Or "Dear Miss Farrel, We went to the opera last night. It was too classical for me." And they had always ended: "Yours sincerely, Lancelot Stukely." And yet she could not believe he was really different. Was she different? "Am I perhaps different?" she thought. She dismissed the idea. What had happened to make her different? Nothing. For the last five years, ever since her father had died, she had lived the same life. The winter at her aunt's villa at Bordighera, sometimes a week or two at Florence, the summer at Saint-Yves-les-Bains, where they lived in the hotel, on special terms, as Mrs. Knolles was such a constant client. Never a new note, always the same gang of people round them; the fashionable cosmopolitan world of continental watering-places, the English and foreign colonies of the Riviera and North Italy. She had never met anyone who had roused her interest, and the only persons whose attention she had seemed to attract were, in her Aunt Elsie's words, "frankly impossible." She would be thirty next year. She already felt infinitely older. "But perhaps," she thought, "he will come back the same as he was before. He will propose and I will accept him this time." Why had she refused him? Their financial situation--her poverty and his own very small income had had nothing to do with it, because Lancelot had said he was willing to wait for years, and everyone knew he had expectations. She could not have left her father, but then her father died a year after she refused Lancelot. No, the reason had been that she thought she did not love him. She had liked Lancelot, but she hoped for something more and something different. A fairy prince who would wake her to a different life. As soon as he had gone away, and still more when his series of formal letters began, she realized that she had made a mistake, and she had never ceased to repent her action. The fact was, she said to herself, I was too young to make such a decision. I did not know my own mind. If only he had come back when father died. If only he had been a little more insistent. He had accepted everything without a murmur. And yet now she felt certain he had been faithful and was faithful still, whatever anyone might say to the contrary. "Perhaps I am altered," she thought. "Perhaps he won't even recognize me." And yet she knew she did not believe this. For although her Aunt Elsie used to be seriously anxious about her niece's looks--fearing anaemia, so much so that they sometimes visited dreary places on the sea-coasts of England and France--she knew her looks had not altered sensibly. People still stared at her when she entered a room, for although there was nothing classical nor brilliant about her features and her appearance, hers was a face you could not fail to observe and which it was difficult to forget. It was a face that appealed to artists. They would have liked to try and paint that clear white, delicate skin, and those extraordinarily haunting round eyes which looked violet in some lights and a deep sea-blue in others, and to try and render the romantic childish glamour of her person, that wistful, fairy-tale-like expression. It was extraordinary that with such an appearance she should have been the inspirer of no romance, but so it was. Painters had admired her; one or two adventurers had proposed to her; but with the exception of Lancelot Stukely no one had fallen in love with her. Perhaps she had frightened people. She could not make conversation. She did not care for books. She knew nothing of art, and the people her aunt saw--most of whom were foreigners--talked glibly and sometimes wittily of all these things. Kathleen had been born for a country life, and she was condemned to live in cities and in watering-places. She was insular; though she had lived a great deal in Ireland, she was not Irish, and she had been cast for a continental part. She was matter-of-fact, and her appearance promised the opposite. She was in a sense the victim of her looks, which were so misleading. But perhaps the solution, the real solution of the absence of romance, or even of suitors, was to be found in her unconquerable listlessness and apathy. She was, as it were, only half-alive. Once, when she was a little girl, she had gone to pick flowers in the great dark wood near her home, where the trees had huge fantastic trunks, and gnarled boles, and where in the spring-time the blue-bells stretched beneath them like an unbroken blue sea. After she had been picking blue-bells for nearly an hour, she had felt sleepy. She lay down under the trunk of a tree. A gipsy passed her and asked to tell her fortune. She had waved her away, as she had no sympathy with gipsies. The gipsy had said that she would give her a piece of good advice unasked, and that was, not to go to sleep in the forest on the Eve of St. John, for if she did she would never wake. She paid no attention to this, and she dozed off to sleep and slept for about half-an-hour. She was an obstinate child, and not at all superstitious. When she got home, she asked the housekeeper when was the Eve of St. John. It happened to fall on that very day. She said to herself that this proved what nonsense the gipsies talked, as she had slept, woken up, come back to the house, and had high tea in the schoolroom as usual. She never gave the incident another thought; but the housekeeper, who was superstitious, told one of the maids that Miss Kathleen had been _overlooked_ by the fairy-folk and would never be quite the same again. When she was asked for further explanations, she would not give any. But to all outward appearances Kathleen was the same, and nobody noticed any difference in her, nor did she feel that she had suffered any change. As long as she had lived with her father in Ireland, she had been fairly lively. She had enjoyed out-door life. The house, a ramshackle, Georgian grey building, was near the sea, and her father who had been a sailor used sometimes to take her out sailing. She had ridden and sometimes hunted. All this she had enjoyed. It was only after she dismissed Lancelot, who had known her ever since she was sixteen, that the mist of apathy had descended on her. After her father's death, this mist had increased in thickness, and when her continental life with her aunt had began, she had altogether lost any particle of _joie de vivre_ she had ever had. Nor did she seem to notice it or to regret the past. She never complained. She accepted her aunt's plans and decisions, and never made any objection, never even a suggestion or a comment. Her aunt was truly fond of her, and she tried to devise treats to please her, and tried to awaken her interest in things. One year she had taken Kathleen to Bayreuth, hoping to rouse her interest in music, but Kathleen had found the music tedious and noisy, although she listened to it without complaining, and when her aunt suggested going there another year, she agreed to the suggestion with alacrity. The only thing which ever roused her interest was horse-racing. Sometimes they went to the races near Saint-Yves, and then Kathleen would become a different girl. She would be, as long as the racing lasted, alive for the time being, and sink back into her dreamless apathy as soon as they were over. At the same time, whenever she thought of Lancelot Stukely she felt a pang of regret, and after reading this paragraph in the _Morning Post_, she hoped, more than ever she had hoped before, that he would come back, and come back unchanged and faithful, and that she would be the same for him as she had been before, and that she would once more be able to make his slow honest eyes light up and smoulder with love, admiration and passion. "This time I will not make the same mistake," she said to herself. "If he gives me the chance----" 2 Her reverie was interrupted by the approach of an hotel acquaintance. It was Anikin, the Russian, who had in the last month become an accepted and established factor in their small group of hotel acquaintances. Kathleen had met him first some years ago at Rome, but it was only at Saint-Yves that she had come to know him. As he took off his hat in a hesitating manner, as if afraid of interrupting her thoughts, she registered the fact that she knew him, not only better than anyone else at the hotel, but better almost than anyone anywhere. "Would you like a game?" he asked. He meant a game which was provided in the park for the distraction of the patients. It consisted in throwing a small ring, attached to a post by a string, on to hooks which were fixed on an upright sloping board. The hooks had numbers underneath them, which varied from one to 5,000. "Not just at present," she said, "I am waiting for Aunt Elsie. I must see what she is going to do, but later on I should love a game." He smiled and went on. He understood that she wanted to be left alone. He had that swift, unerring comprehension of the small and superficial shades of the mind, the minor feelings, social values, and human relations that so often distinguishes his countrymen. He might, indeed, have stepped out of a Russian novel, with his untidy hair, his short-sighted, kindly eyes, his colourless skin, and nondescript clothes. Kathleen had never reflected before whether she liked him or disliked him. She had accepted him as part of the place, and she had not noticed the easiness of relations with him. It came upon her now with a slight shock that these relations were almost peculiar from their ease and naturalness. It was as if she had known him for years, whereas she had not known him for more than a month. All this flashed through her mind, which then went back to the paragraph in the _Morning Post_, when her aunt rustled up to her. Mrs. Knolles had the supreme elegance of being smart without looking conventional, as if she led rather than followed the fashion. There was always something personal and individual about her Parisian hats, her jewels, and her cloaks; and there was something rich, daring and exotic about her sumptuous sombre hair, with its sudden gold-copper glints and her soft brown eyes. There was nothing apathetic about her. She was filled to the brim with life, with interest, with energy. She cast a glance at the _Morning Post_, and said rather impatiently: "My dear child, what are you reading? That newspaper is ten days old. Don't you see it is dated the first?" "So it is," said Kathleen apologetically. But that moment a thought flashed through her: "Then, surely, Lancelot must be on his way home, if he is not back already." "I've brought you your letters," said her aunt. "Here they are." Kathleen reached for them more eagerly than usual. She expected to see, she hoped, at least, to see, Lancelot's rather childish hand-writing, but both the letters were bills. "Mr. Arkright and Anikin are dining with us," said her aunt, "and Count Tilsit." Kathleen said nothing. "You don't mind?" said her aunt. "Of course not." "I thought you liked Count Tilsit." "Oh, yes, I do," said Kathleen. Kathleen felt that she had, against her intention, expressed disappointment, or rather that she had not expressed the necessary blend of surprise and pleasure. But as Arkright and Anikin dined with them frequently, and as she had forgotten who Count Tilsit was, this was difficult for her. Arkright was an English author, who was a friend of her aunt's, and had sufficient penetration to realize that Mrs. Knolles was something more than a woman of the world; to appreciate her fundamental goodness as well as her obvious cleverness, and to divine that Kathleen's exterior might be in some ways deceptive. "You remember him in Florence?" said Mrs. Knolles, reverting to Count Tilsit. "Oh, yes, the Norwegian." "A Swede, darling, not a Norwegian." "I thought it was the same thing," said Kathleen. "I have got a piece of news for you," said Mrs. Knolles. Kathleen made an effort to prepare her face. She was determined that it should reveal nothing. She knew quite well what was coming. "Lancelot Stukely is in London," her aunt went on. "He came back just in time to see his uncle before he died. His uncle has left him everything." "Was Sir James ill a long time?" Kathleen asked. "I believe he was," said Mrs. Knolles. "Oh, then I suppose he won't go back to Malta," said Kathleen, with perfectly assumed indifference. "Of course not," said Mrs. Knolles. "He inherits the place, the title, everything. He will be very well off. Would you like to drive to Bavigny this afternoon? Princess Oulchikov can take us in her motor if you would like to go. Arkright is coming." "I will if you want me to," said Kathleen. This was one of the remarks that Kathleen often made, which annoyed her aunt, and perhaps justly. Mrs. Knolles was always trying to devise something that would amuse or distract her niece, but whenever she suggested anything to her or arranged any expedition or special treat which she thought might amuse, all the response she met with was a phrase that implied resignation. "I don't want you to come if you would rather not," she said with beautifully concealed impatience. "Well, to-day I _would_ rather not," said Kathleen, greatly to her aunt's surprise. It was the first time she had ever made such an answer. "Aren't you feeling well, darling?" she asked gently. "Quite well, Aunt Elsie, I promise," Kathleen said smiling, "but I said I would sit and talk to Mr. Asham this afternoon." Mr. Asham was a blind man who had been ordered to take the waters at Saint-Yves. Kathleen had made friends with him. "Very well," said Mrs. Knolles, with a sigh. "I must go. The motor will be there. Don't forget we've got people dining with us to-night, and don't wear your grey. It's too shabby." One of Miss Farrel's practices, which irritated her aunt, was to wear her shabbiest clothes on an occasion that called for dress, and to take pains, as it were, not to do herself justice. Her aunt left her. Kathleen had made no arrangement with Asham. She had invented the excuse on the spur of the moment, but she knew he would be in the park in the afternoon. She wanted to think. She wanted to be alone. If Lancelot had been in England when Sir James died, then he must have started home at least a fortnight ago, as the news that she had read was ten days old. She had not heard from him for over a month. This meant that his uncle had been ill, he had returned to London, and had experienced a change of fortune without writing her one word. "All the same," she thought, "it proves nothing." At that moment a friendly voice called to her. "What are you doing all by yourself, Kathleen?" It was her friend, Mrs. Roseleigh. Kathleen had known Eva Roseleigh all her life, although her friend was ten years older than herself and was married. She was staying at Saint-Yves by herself. Her husband was engrossed in other occupations and complications besides those of his business in the city, and of a different nature. Mrs. Roseleigh was one of those women whom her friends talked of with pity, saying "Poor Eva!" But "Poor Eva" had a large income, a comfortable house in Upper Brook Street. She was slight, and elegant; as graceful as a Tanagra figure, fair, delicate-looking, appealing and plaintive to look at, with sympathetic grey eyes. Her husband was a successful man of business, and some people said that the neglect he showed his wife and the publicity of his infidelities was not to be wondered at, considering the contempt with which she treated him. It was more a case of "Poor Charlie," they said, than "Poor Eva." Kathleen would not have agreed with these opinions. She was never tired of saying that Eva was "wonderful." She was certainly a good friend to Kathleen. "Sir James Stukely is plead," said Kathleen. "I saw that in the newspaper some time ago. I thought you knew," said Mrs. Roseleigh. "It was stupid of me not to know. I read the newspapers so seldom and so badly." "That means Lancelot will come home." "He has come home." "Oh, you know then?" "Know what?" "That he is coming here?" Kathleen blushed crimson. "Coming here! How do you know?" "I saw his name," said Mrs. Roseleigh, "on the board in the hall of the hotel, and I asked if he had arrived. They told me they were expecting him to-night." At that moment a tall dark lady, elegant as a figure carved by Jean Goujon, and splendid as a Titian, no longer young, but still more than beautiful, walked past them, talking rather vehemently in Italian to a young man, also an Italian. "Who is that?" asked Kathleen. "That," said Mrs. Roseleigh, "is Donna Laura Bartolini. She is still very beautiful, isn't she? The man with her is a diplomat." "I think," said Kathleen, "she is very striking-looking. But what extraordinary clothes." "They are specially designed for her." "Do you know her?" "A little. She is not at all what she seems to be. She is, at heart, matter-of-fact, and domestic, but she dresses like a Bacchante. She has still many devoted adorers." "Here?" "Everywhere. But she worships her husband." "Is he here?" "No, but I think he is coming." "I remember hearing about her a long time ago. I think she was at Cairo once." "Very likely, Her husband is an archaeologist, a _savant_." Was that the woman, thought Kathleen, to whom Lancelot was supposed to have been devoted? If so, it wasn't true. She was sure it wasn't true. Lancelot would never have been attracted by that type of woman, and yet---- "Aunt Elsie has asked a Swede to dinner. Count Tilsit. Do you know him?" "I was introduced to him yesterday. He admired you." "Do you like him?" "I hardly know him. I think he is nice-looking and has good manners and looks like an Englishman." But Kathleen was no longer listening. She was thinking of Lancelot, of his sudden arrival. What could it mean? Did he know they were here? The last time he had written was a month ago from London. Had she said they were coming here? She thought she had. Perhaps she had not. In any case that would hardly make any difference, as he knew they went abroad every year, knew they went to Saint-Yves most years, and if he didn't know, would surely hear it in London. Yes, he must know. Then it meant either that--or perhaps it meant something quite different. Perhaps the doctor had sent him to Saint-Yves. He had suffered from attacks of Malta fever several times. Saint-Yves was good for malaria. There was a well-known malaria specialist on the medical staff. He might be coming to consult him. What did she want to be the truth? What did she feel? She scarcely knew herself. She felt exhilarated, as if life had suddenly become different, more interesting and strangely irridescent. What would Lancelot be like? Would he be the same? Or would he be someone quite different? She couldn't talk about it, not even to Eva, although Eva had known all about it, and Mrs. Roseleigh with her acute intuition guessed that, and guessed what Kathleen was thinking about, and said nothing that fringed the topic; but what disconcerted Kathleen and gave her a slight quiver of alarm was that she thought she discerned in Eva's voice and manner the faintest note of pity; she experienced an almost imperceptible chill in the temperature; an inkling, the ghost of a warning, as if Eva were thinking. "You mustn't be disappointed if----" Well, she wouldn't be disappointed _if_. At least nobody should divine her disappointment: not even Eva. Mrs. Roseleigh guessed that her friend wanted to be alone and left her on some quickly invented pretext. As soon as she was alone Kathleen rose from her seat and went for a walk by herself beyond the park and through the village. Then she came back and played a game with Anikin at the ring board, and at five o'clock she had a talk with Asham to quiet her conscience. She stayed out late, until, in fact, the motor-bus, which met the evening express, arrived from the station at seven o'clock. She watched its arrival from a distance, from the galleries, while she simulated interest in the shop windows. But as the motor-bus was emptied of its passengers, she caught no sight of Lancelot. When the omnibus had gone, and the new arrivals left the scene, she walked into the hall of the hotel, and asked the porter whether many new visitors had arrived. "Two English gentlemen," he said, "Lord Frumpiest and Sir Lancelot Stukely." She ran upstairs to dress for dinner, and even her Aunt Elsie was satisfied with her appearance that night. She had put on her sea-green tea-gown: a present from Eva, made in Paris. "I wish you always dressed like that," said Mrs. Knolles, as they walked into the Casino dining-room. "You can't think what a difference it makes. It's so foolish not to make the best of oneself when it needs so very little trouble." But Mrs. Knolles had the untaught and unlearnable gift of looking her best at any season, at any hour. It was, indeed, no trouble to her; but all the trouble in the world could not help others to achieve the effects which seemed to come to her by accident. 3 As they walked into the large hotel dining-room, Kathleen was conscious that everyone was looking at her, except Lancelot, if he was there, and she felt he _was_ there. Arkright and Count Tilsit were waiting for them at their table and stood up as they walked in. They were followed almost immediately by Princess Oulchikov, whose French origin and education were made manifest by her mauve chiffon shawl, her buckled shoes, and the tortoise-shell comb in her glossy black hair. Nothing could have been more unpretentious than her clothes, and nothing more common to hundreds of her kind, than her single row of pearls and her little platinum wrist-watch, but the manner in which she wore these things was French, as clearly and unmistakably French and not Russian, Italian, or English, as an article signed Jules Lemaître or the ribbons of a chocolate Easter Egg from the _Passage des Panoramas_. She looked like a Winterhalter portrait of a lady who had been a great beauty in the days of the Second Empire. Her married life with Prince Oulchikov, once a brilliant and reckless cavalry officer, and not long ago deceased, after many vicissitudes of fortune, ending by prosperity, since he had died too soon after inheriting a third fortune to squander it, as he had managed to squander two former inheritances, and her at one time prolonged sojourns in the country of her adoption had left no trace on her appearance. As to their effect on her soul and mind, that was another and an altogether different question. Mrs. Knolles, whose harmonious draperies of black and yellow seemed to call for the brush of a daring painter, sat at the further end of the table next to the window, on her left at the end of the table Arkright, whom you would never have taken for an author, since his motto was what a Frenchman once said to a young painter who affected long hair and eccentric clothes: "_Ne savez-vous pas qu'il faut s'habiller comme tout le monde et peindre comme personne?_" On his other side sat Princess Oulchikov; next to her at the end of the table, Kathleen, and then Count Tilsit (fair, blue-eyed, and shy) on Mrs. Knolles's right. Kathleen, being at the end of the table, could not see any of the tables behind her, but in front of her was a gilded mirror, and no sooner had they sat down to dinner than she was aware, in this glass, of the reflection of Lancelot Stukely's back, who was sitting at a table with a party of people just opposite to them on the other side of the room. There was nothing more remarkable about Lancelot Stukely's front view than about his back view, and that, in spite of a certain military squareness of shoulder, had a slight stoop. He was small and seemed made to grace the front windows of a club in St. James's Street; everything about him was correct, and his face had the honest refinement of a well-bred dog that has been admirably trained and only barks at the right kind of stranger. But the sudden sight of Lancelot transformed Kathleen. It was as if someone had lit a lamp behind her alabaster mask, and in the effort to conceal any embarrassment, or preoccupation, she flushed and became unusually lively and talked to Anikin with a gaiety and an uninterrupted ease, that seemed not to belong to her usual self. And yet, while she talked, she found time every now and then to study the reflections of the mirror in front of them, and these told her that Lancelot was sitting next to Donna Laura Bartolini. The young man she had seen talking to Donna Laura was there also. There were others whom she did not know. Mrs. Knolles was busily engaged in thawing the stiff coating of ice of Count Tilsit's shyness, and very soon she succeeded in putting him completely at his ease; and Arkright was trying to interest Princess Oulchikov in Japanese art. But the Princess had lived too long in Russia not to catch the Slav microbe of indifference, and she was a woman who only lived by half-hours. This half-hour was one of her moment of eclipse, and she paid little attention to what Arkright said. He, however, was habituated to her ways and went on talking. Mrs. Knolles was surprised and pleased at her niece's behaviour. Never had she seen her so lively, so gay. "Miss Farrel is looking extraordinarily well to-night," Arkright said, in an undertone, to the Princess. "Yes," said Princess Oulchikov, "she is at last taking waters from the right _source._" She often made cryptic remarks of this kind, and Arkright was puzzled, for Kathleen never took the waters, but he knew the Princess well enough not to ask her to explain. Princess Oulchikov made no further comment. Her mind had already relapsed into the land of listless limbo which it loved to haunt. Presently the conversation became general. They discussed the races, the troupe at the Casino Theatre, the latest arrivals. "Lancelot Stukely is here," said Mrs. Knolles. "Yes," said Kathleen, with great calm, "dining with Donna Laura Bartolini." "Oh, Laura's arrived," said Mrs. Knolles. "I am glad. That is good news. What fun we shall all have together. Yes. There she is, looking lovely. Don't you think she's lovely?" she said to Arkright and the Princess. Arkright admired Donna Laura unreservedly. Princess Oulchikov said she would no doubt think the same if she hadn't known her thirty years ago, and then "those clothes," she said, "don't suit her, they make her look like an _art nouveau_ poster." Anikin said he did not admire her at all, and as for the clothes, she was the last person who should dare those kind of clothes; her beauty was conventional, she was made for less fantastic fashions. He looked at Kathleen. He was thinking that her type of beauty could have supported any costume, however extravagant; in fact he longed to see her draped in shimmering silver and faded gold, with strange stones in her hair. Count Tilsit, who was younger than anyone present, said he found her young. "She is older than you think," said Princess Oulchikov. "I remember her coming out in Rome in 1879." "Do you think she is over fifty?" said Kathleen. "I do not think it, I am sure," said the Princess. "Her figure is wonderful," said Mrs Knolles. "Was she very beautiful then?" asked Anikin. "The most beautiful woman I have ever seen," said the Princess. "People stood on chairs to look at her one night at the French Embassy. It is cruel to see her dressed as she is now." Count Tilsit opened his clear, round, blue eyes, and stared first at the Princess and then at Donna Laura. It was inconceivable to his young Scandinavian mind that this radiant and dazzling creature, dressed up like the Queen in a Russian ballet, could be over fifty. "To me, she has always looked exactly the same," said Arkright. "In fact, I admire her more now than I did when I first knew her fifteen years ago." "That is because you look at her with the eyes of the past," said the Princess, "but not of a long enough past, as I do. When you first saw her you were young, but when I first saw her _she_ was young. That makes all the difference." "I think she is very beautiful now," said Mrs. Knolles. "And so do I," said Kathleen. "I could understand anyone being in love with her." "That there will always be people in love with her," said the Princess, "and young people. She has charm as well as beauty, and how rare that is!" "Yes," said Anikin, pensively, "how rare that is." Kathleen looked at the mirror as if she was appraising Donna Laura's beauty, but in reality it was to see whether Lancelot was talking to her. As far as she could see he seemed to be rather silent. General conversation, with a lot of Italian intermixed with it, was going up from the table like fireworks. Kathleen turned to Count Tilsit and made conversation to him, while Anikin and the Princess began to talk in a passionately argumentative manner of all the beauties they had known. The Princess had come to life once more. Mrs. Knolles, having done her duty, relapsed into a comfortable conversation with Arkright. They understood each other without effort. The Italian party finished their dinner first, and went out on to the terrace, and as they walked out of the room the extraordinary dignity of Donna Laura's carriage struck the whole room. Whatever anyone might think of her looks now, there was no doubt that her presence still carried with it the authority that only great beauty, however much it may be lessened by time, confers. "_Elle est encore très belle_," said Princess Oulchikov, voicing the thoughts of the whole party. Mrs. Knolles suggested going out. Shawls were fetched and coffee was served just outside the hotel on a stone terrace. Soon after they had sat down, Lancelot Stukely walked up to them. He was not much changed, Kathleen thought. A little grey about the temples, a little bit thinner, and slightly more tanned--his face had been burnt in the tropics--but the slow, honest eyes were the same. He said how-do-you-do to Mrs. Knolles and to herself, and was presented to the others. Mrs. Knolles asked him to sit down. "I must go back presently," he said, "but may I stay a minute?" He sat down next to Kathleen. They talked a little with pauses in between their remarks. She did not ask him how long he was going to stay, but he explained his arrival. He had come to consult the malaria specialist. "We have all been discussing Donna Laura Bartolini," said Mrs. Knolles. "You were dining with her?" "Yes," he said, "she is an old friend of mine. I met her first at Cairo." "Is she going to stay long?" asked Mrs. Knolles. "No," he said, "she is only passing through on her way to Italy. She leaves for Ravenna to-morrow morning." "She is looking beautiful," said Mrs. Knolles. "Yes," he said, "she is very beautiful, isn't she?" Then he got up. "I hope we shall meet again to-morrow," he said to Kathleen and to Mrs. Knolles. "Are you staying on?" asked Mrs. Knolles. "Oh, no," he said. "I only wanted to see the doctor. I have got to go back to England at once. I have got so much business to do." "Of course," said Mrs. Knolles. "We will see you to-morrow. Will you come to the lakes with us?" Lancelot hesitated and then said that he, alas, would be busy all day to-morrow. He had an appointment with the doctor--he had so little time. He was slightly confused in his explanations. He then said good-night, and went back to his party. They were sitting at a table under the trees. Kathleen felt relieved, unaccountably relieved, that he had gone, and she experienced a strange exhilaration. It was as if a curtain had been lifted up and she suddenly saw a different and a new world. She had the feeling of seeing clearly for the first time for many years. She saw quite plainly that as far as Lancelot was concerned, the past was completely forgotten. She meant nothing to him at all. He was the same Lancelot, but he belonged to a different world. There were gulfs and gulfs between them now. He had come here to see Donna Laura for a few hours. He had not minded doing this, although he knew that he would meet Kathleen. He had told her himself that he knew he would meet her. He had mentioned the rarity of his letters lately. He had been so busy, and then all that business ... his uncle's death. The situation was quite simple and quite clear. But the strange thing was that, instead of feeling her life was over, as she had expected to feel, she felt it was, on the contrary, for the first time beginning. "I have been waiting for years," she thought to herself, "for this fairy Prince, and now I see that he was not the fairy Prince, after all. But this does not mean I may not meet the fairy Prince, the _real_ one," and her eyes glistened. She had never felt more alive, more ready for adventure. Anikin suggested that they should all walk in the garden. It was still daylight. They got up. The Princess, Arkright, Mrs. Knolles, and Count Tilsit walked down the steps first, and passed on down an avenue. Kathleen delayed until the others walked on some way, and then she said to Anikin, who was waiting for her: "Let us stay and talk here. It is quieter. We can go for a walk presently." 4 They did not stay long on the terrace. As soon as they saw which direction the rest of the party had taken they took another. They walked through the hotel gates across the street as far as a gate over which _Bellevue_ was written. They had never been there before. It was an annexe of the hotel, a kind of detached park. They climbed up the hill and passed two deserted and unused lawn-tennis courts and a dusty track once used for skittles, and emerged from a screen of thick trees on to a little plateau. Behind them was a row of trees and a green corn-field, beneath them a steep slope of grass. They could see the red roofs of the village, the roofs of the hotels, the grey spire of the village church, the park, the green plain and, in the distance rising out of the green corn, a large flat-topped hill. The long summer daylight was at last fading away. The sky was lustrous and the air was quite still. The fields and the trees had that peculiar deep green they take on in the twilight, as if they had been dyed by the tints of the evening. Anikin said it reminded him of Russia. Kathleen had wrapped a thin white shawl round her, and in the dimness of the hour she looked as white as a ghost, but in the pallor of her face her eyes shone like black diamonds. Anikin had never seen her look like that. And then it came to him that this was the moment of moments. Perhaps the moon had risen. The cloudless sky seemed all of a sudden to be silvered with a new light. There was a dry smell of sun-baked roads and of summer in the air, and no sound at all. They had sat down on the bench and Kathleen was looking straight in front of her out into the west, where the last remains of the sunset had faded some time ago. This Anikin felt was the sacred minute; the moment of fate; the imperishable instant which Faust had asked for even at the price of his soul, but which mortal love had always denied him. In a whisper he asked Kathleen to be his wife. She got up from the seat and said very slowly: "Yes, I will marry you." The words seemed to be spoken for her by something in her that was not herself, and yet she was willing that they should be spoken. She seemed to want all this to happen, and yet she felt that it was being done for her, not of her own accord, but by someone else. Her eyes shone like stars. But as he touched her hand, she still felt that she was being moved by some alien spirit separate from herself and that it was not she herself that was giving herself to him. She was obeying some exterior and foreign control which came neither from him nor from her--some mysterious outside influence. She seemed to be looking on at herself as she was whirled over the edge of a planet, but she was not making the effort, nor was it Anikin's words, nor his look, nor his touch, that were moving her. He had taken her in his arms, and as he kissed her they heard footsteps on the path coming towards them. The spell was broken, and they gently moved apart one from the other. It was he who said quietly: "We had better go home." Some French people appeared through the trees round the corner. A middle-aged man in a nankin jacket, his wife, his two little girls. They were acquaintances of Anikin and of Kathleen. It was the man who kept a haberdasher's shop in the _Galeries_. Brief mutual salutations passed and a few civilities were bandied, and then Kathleen and Anikin walked slowly down the hill in silence. It had grown darker and a little chilly. There was no more magic in the sky. It was as if someone had somewhere turned off the light on which all the illusion of the scene had depended. They walked back into the park. The band was playing an undulating tango. Mrs. Knolles and the others were sitting on chairs under the trees. Anikin and Kathleen joined them and sat down. Neither of them spoke much during the rest of the evening. Presently Mrs. Roseleigh joined them. She looked at Kathleen closely and there was a slight shade of wonder in her expression. The next day Mrs. Knolles had organized an expedition to the lakes. Kathleen, Anikin, Arkright, Princess Oulchikov and Count Tilsit were all of the party. When they reached the first lake, they separated into groups, Anikin and Kathleen, Count Tilsit and Mrs. Roseleigh, while Arkright went with the Princess and Mrs. Knolles. Ever since the moment of magic at Bellevue, Kathleen had been like a person in a trance. She did not know whether she was happy or unhappy. She only felt she was being irresistibly impelled along a certain course. It is certain that her strange state of mind affected Anikin. It began to affect him from the moment he had held her in his arms on the hill and that the spell had so abruptly been broken. He had thought this had been due to the sudden interruption and the untimely intervention of the prosaic realities of life. But was this the explanation? Was it the arrival of the haberdasher on the scene that had broken the spell? Or was it something else? Something far more subtle and mysterious, something far more serious and deep? Curiously enough Anikin had passed through, on that memorable evening, emotions closely akin to those which Kathleen had experienced. He said to himself: "This is the Fairy Princess I have been seeking all my life." But the morning after his moment of passion on the hill he began to wonder whether he had dreamed this. And now that he was walking beside her along the broad road, under the trees of the dark forest, through which, every now and then, they caught a glimpse of the blue lake, he reflected that she was like what she had been _before_ the decisive evening, only if anything still more aloof. He began to feel that she was eluding him and that he was pursuing a shadow. Just as he was thinking this ever so vaguely and tentatively, they came to a turn in the road. They were at a cross-roads and they did not know which road to take. They paused a moment, and from a path on the side of the road the other members of the party emerged. There was a brief consultation, and they were all mixed up once more. When they separated, Anikin found himself with Mrs. Roseleigh. Mrs. Knolles had sent Kathleen on with Count Tilsit. Anikin was annoyed, but his manners were too good to allow him to show it. They walked on, and as soon as they began to talk Anikin forgot his annoyance. They talked of one thing and another and time rushed past them. This was the first time during Anikin's acquaintance with Mrs. Roseleigh that he had ever had a real conversation with her. He all at once became aware that they had been talking for a long time and talking intimately. His conscience pricked him; but, so far from wanting to stop, he wanted to go on; and instead of their intimacy being accidental it became on his part intentional. That is to say, he allowed himself to listen to all that was not said, and he sent out himself silent wordless messages which he felt were received instantly on an invisible aerial. For the moment he put all thoughts of what had happened away from him, and gave himself up to the enchantment of understanding and being understood so easily, so lightly. He put up his feet and coasted down the long hill of a newly discovered intimacy. Presently there was a further meeting and amalgamation of the group as they reached a famous view, and the party was reshuffled. This time Anikin was left to Kathleen. Was it actually disappointment he was feeling? Surely not; and yet he could not reach her. She was further off than ever and in their talk there were long silences, during which he began to reflect and to analyse with the fatal facility of his race for what is their national moral sport. He reflected that except during those brief moments on the hill he had never seen Kathleen alive. He had known her well before, and their friendship had always had an element of easy sympathy about it, but she had never given him a glimpse of what was happening behind her beautiful mask, and no unspoken messages had passed between them. But just now during that last walk with Mrs. Roseleigh, he recognized only too clearly that notes of a different and a far deeper intimacy had every now and then been struck accidently and without his being aware of it at first, and then later consciously, and the response had been instantaneous and unerring. And something began to whisper inside him: "What if she is not the Fairy Princess after all, not your Fairy Princess?" And then there came another more insidious whisper which said: "Your Fairy Princess would have been quite different, she would have been like Mrs. Roseleigh, and now that can never be." The expedition, after some coffee at a wayside hotel, came to an end and they drove home in two motor cars. Once more he was thrown together with Mrs. Roseleigh, and once more the soul of each of them seemed to be fitted with an invisible aerial between which soundless messages, which needed neither visible channel nor hidden wire, passed uninterruptedly. Anikin came back from that expedition a different man. All that night he did not sleep. He kept on repeating to himself: "It was a mistake. I do not love her. I can never love her. It was an illusion: the spell and intoxication of a moment." And then before his eyes the picture of Mrs. Roseleigh stood out in startling detail, her melancholy, laughing, mocking eyes, her quick nervous laugh, her swift flashes of intuition. How she understood the shade of the shadow of what he meant! And that mocking face seemed to say to him: "You have made a mistake and you know it. You were spellbound for a moment by a face. It is a ravishing face, but the soul behind it is not your soul. You do not understand one another. You never will understand one another. There is an unpassable gulf between you. Do not make the mistake of sacrificing your happiness and hers as well to any silly and hollow phrases of honour. Do not follow the code of convention, follow the voice of your heart, your instincts that cannot go wrong. Tell her before it is too late. And she, she does not love you. She never will love you. She was spellbound, too, for the moment. But you have only to look at her now to see that the spell is broken and it will never come back, at least you will never bring it back. She is English, English to the core, although she looks like the illustration to some strange fairy-tale, and you are a Slav. You cannot do without Russian comfort, the comfort of the mind, and she cannot do without English solidity. She will marry a squire or, perhaps, who knows, a man of business; but someone solid and rooted to the English soil and nested in the English conventions. What can you give her? Not even talent. Not even the disorder and excitement of a Bohemian life; only a restless voyage on the surface of life, and a thousand social and intellectual problems, only the capacity of understanding all that does not interest her." That is what the conjured-up face of Mrs. Roseleigh seemed to say to him. It was not, he said to himself, that he was in love or that he ever would be in love with Mrs. Roseleigh. It was only that she had, by her quick sympathy, revealed his own feelings to himself. She had by her presence and her conversation given him the true perspective of things and let him see them in their true light, and in that perspective and in that light he saw clearly that he had made a mistake. He had mistaken a moment of intoxication for the authentic voice of passion. He had pursued a shadow. He had tried to bring to life a statue, and he had failed. Then he thought that he was perhaps after all mistaken, that the next morning he would find that everything was as it had been before; but he did not sleep, and in the clear light of morning he realized quite clearly that he did not love Kathleen. What was he to do? He was engaged to be married. Break it off? Tell her at once? It sounded so easy. It was in reality--it would be to him at any rate--so intensely difficult. He hated sharp situations. He felt that his action had been irrevocable: that there was no way out of it. The chain around him was as thin as a spider's web. But would he have the necessary determination to make the effort of will to snap it? Nothing would be easier. She would probably understand. She would perhaps help him, and yet he felt he would never be able to make the slight gesture which would be enough to free him for ever from that delicate web of gossamer. 5 When Anikin got up after his restless and sleepless night he walked out into the park. The visitors were drinking the waters in the Pavilion and taking monotonous walks between each glass. Asham was sitting in a chair under the trees. His servant was reading out the _Times_ to him. Anikin smiled rather bitterly to himself as he reflected how many little dramas, comedies and tragedies might be played in the immediate neighbourhood of that man without his being aware even of the smallest hint or suggestion of them. He sat down beside him. The servant left off reading and withdrew. "Don't let me interrupt you," said Anikin, but after a few moments he left Asham. He found he was unable to talk and went back to the hotel, where he drank his coffee and for a time he sat looking at the newspapers in the reading room of the Casino. Then he went back to the park. One thought possessed him, and one only. How was he to do it? Should he say it, or write? And what should he say or write? He caught sight of Arkright who was in the park by himself. He strolled up to him and they talked of yesterday's expedition. Arkright said there were some lakes further off than those they had visited, which were still more worth seeing. They were thinking of going there next week--perhaps Anikin would come too. "I'm afraid not," said Anikin. "My plans are changed. I may have to go away." "To Russia?" asked Arkright. "No, to Africa, perhaps," said Anikin. "It must be delightful," said Arkright, "to be like that, to be able to come and go when one wants to, just as one feels inclined, to start at a moment's notice for Rome or Moscow and to leave the day after one has arrived if one wishes to--to have no obligations, no ties, and to be at home everywhere all over Europe." Arkright thought of his rather bare flat in Artillery Mansions, the years of toil before a newspaper, let alone a publisher, would look at any of his manuscripts, and then the painful, slow journey up the stairs of recognition and the meagre substantial rewards that his so-called reputation, his "place" in contemporary literature, had brought him; he thought of all the places he had not seen and which he would give worlds to see--Rome, Venice, Russia, the East, Spain, Seville; he thought of what all that would mean to him, of the unbounded wealth which was there waiting for him like ore in quarries in which he would never be allowed to dig; he reflected that he had worked for ten years before ever being able to go abroad at all, and that his furthest and fullest adventure had been a fortnight spent one Easter at a fireless Pension in Florence. Whereas here was this rich and idle Russian who, if he pleased, could roam throughout Europe from one end to the other, who could take an apartment in Rome or a palace in Venice, for whom all the immense spaces of Russia were too small, and who could talk of suddenly going to Africa, as he, Arkright, could scarcely talk of going to Brighton. "Life is very complicated sometimes," said Anikin. "Just when one thinks things are settled and simple and easy, and that one has turned over a new leaf of life, like a new clean sheet of blotting-paper, one suddenly sees it is not a clean sheet; blots from the old pages come oozing through--one can't get rid of the old sheets and the old blots. All one's life is written in indelible ink--that strong violet ink which nothing rubs out and which runs in the wet but never fades. The past is like a creditor who is always turning up with some old bill that one has forgotten. Perhaps the bill was paid, or one thought it was paid, but it wasn't paid--wasn't fully paid, and there the interest has gone on accumulating for years. And so, just as one thinks one is free, one finds oneself more caught than ever and obliged to cancel all one's new speculations because of the old debts, the old ties. That is what you call the wages of sin, I think. It isn't always necessarily what you would call a sin, but is the wages of the past and that is just as bad, just as strong at any rate. They have to be paid in full, those wages, one day or other, sooner or later." Arkright had not been an observer of human nature and a careful student of minute psychological shades and impressions for twenty years for nothing. He had had his eyes wide open during the last weeks, and Mrs. Knolles had furnished him with the preliminary and fundamental data of her niece's case. He felt quite certain that something had taken place between Anikin and Kathleen. He felt the peculiar, the unmistakeable relation. And now that the Russian had served him up this neat discourse on the past he knew full well that he was not being told the truth. Anikin was suddenly going away. A week ago he had been perfectly happy and obviously in an intimate relation to Miss Farrel. Now he was suddenly leaving, possibly to Africa. What had happened? What was the cause of this sudden change of plan? He wanted to get out of whatever situation he found himself bound by. But he also wanted to find for others, at any rate, and possibly for himself as well, some excuse for getting out of it. And here the fundamental cunning and ingenious subtlety of his race was helping him. He was concocting a romance which might have been true, but which was, as a matter of fact, untrue. He was adding "the little more." He was inventing a former entanglement as an obstacle to his present engagements which he wanted to cancel. Arkright knew that there had been a former entanglement in Anikin's life, but what Anikin did not know was that Arkright also knew that this entanglement was over. "It is very awkward," said Arkright, "when the past and the present conflict." "Yes," said Anikin, "and very awkward when one is between two duties." I think I have got him there, thought Arkright. "A French writer," he said aloud, "has said, '_de deux devoirs, il faut choisir le plus désagréable_; that in chosing the disagreeable course you were likely to be right." Anikin remained pensive. "What I find still more complicated," he said, "is when there is a right reason for doing a thing, but one can't use it because the right reason is not the real reason; there is another one as well." "For doing a duty," said Arkright. "Is that what you mean?" "There are circumstances," said Anikin, "in which one could point to duty as a motive, but in which the duty happens to be the same as one's inclinations, and if one took a certain course it would not be because of the duty but because of the inclinations. So one can't any more talk or think of duty." "Then," said Arkright, a little impatiently, "we can cancel the word duty altogether. It is simply a case of choosing between duty and inclination." "No," said Anikin, "it is sometimes a case of choosing between a pleasure which is not contrary to duty (_et qui pourrait même avoir l'excuse du devoir_)" he lapsed into French, which was his habit when he found it difficult to express himself in English, "and an obligation which is contrary both to duty and inclination." "What is the difference between an obligation and a duty?" asked Arkright. He wished to pin the elusive Slav down to something definite. "Isn't there in life often a conflict between them?" asked Anikin. "In practical life, I mean. You know Tennyson's lines: "His honour rooted in dishonour stood And faith unfaithful made him falsely true." "Now I understand," thought Arkright, "he is going to pretend that he is in the position of Lancelot to Elaine, and plead a prior loyalty to a Guinevere that no longer counts." "I think," he said, "in that case one cannot help remaining 'falsely true.'" That is, he thought, what he wants me to say. "One cannot, that is to say, disregard the past," said Anikin. "No, one can't," said Arkright, as if he had entirely accepted the Russian's complicated fiction. He wanted, at the same time, to give him a hint that he was not quite so easily deceived as all that. "Isn't it a curious thought," he said, "how often people invoke the engagements of a past which they have comfortably disregarded up to that moment when they no longer wish to face an obligation in the present, like a man who in order to avoid meeting a new debt suddenly points to an old debt as something sacred, which up till that moment he had completely disregarded, and indeed, forgotten?" Anikin laughed. "Why are you laughing?" asked Arkright. "I am laughing at your intuition," said Anikin. "You novelists are terrible people." "He knows I have seen through him," thought Arkright, "and he doesn't mind. He wanted me to see through him the whole time. He wants me to know that he knows I know, and he doesn't mind. I think that all this elaborate romance was perhaps only meant for me. He will choose some simpler means of breaking off his engagement with Miss Farrel than by pleading a past obligation. He is far subtler and deeper than I thought, subtler and deeper in his simplicity. I should not be surprised if he were to give her no explanation whatsoever." Arkright was in a sense right. What Anikin had said to Arkright was meant for him and not for Miss Farrel. It was not a rehearsal of a possible explanation for her, but it was the testing of a possible justification of himself to himself. He had not thought out what he was going to say before he began to talk to Arkright. He had begun with fact and had involuntarily embroidered the fact with fiction. It was _Wahrheit und Dichtung_ and the _Dichtung_ had got the better of the _Wahrheit_. His passion for make-belief and self-analysis had carried him away, and he had said things which might easily have been true and had hinted at difficulties which might have been his, but which, in reality, were purely imaginary. When he saw that Arkright had divined the truth, he laughed at the novelist's acuteness, and had let him see frankly that he realized he had been found out and that he did not mind. It was cynical, if you called that cynicism. Anikin would not have called it something else: the absence of cement, which a Russian writer had said was the cardinal feature of the Russian character. He did not mean to say or do anything to Kathleen that could possibly seem slighting. He was far too gentle and far too easy-going, far too weak, if you will, to dream of doing anything of the kind. With her, infinite delicacy would be needed. He did not know whether he could break off his engagement at all, so great was his horror of ruptures, of cutting Gordian-knots. This knot, in any case, could not be cut. It must be patiently unravelled if it was to be untied at all. "I think," said Arkright, "that all these cases are simple to reason about, but difficult to act on." Anikin was once more amazed at the novelist's perception. He laughed again, the same puzzling, quizzical _Slav_ laugh. "You Russians," said Arkright, "find all these complicated questions of conflicting duties, divided conscience and clashing obligations, much easier than we do." "Why?" asked Anikin. "Because you have a simple directness in dealing with subtle questions of this kind which is so complete and so transparent that it strikes us Westerners as being sometimes almost cynical." "Cynical?" said Anikin. "I assure you I was not being cynical." He said this smiling so naturally and frankly that for a moment Arkright was puzzled. And Anikin had been quite honest in saying this. He could not have felt less cynical about the whole matter; at the same time he had not been able to help taking momentary enjoyment in Arkright's acute diagnosis of the case when it was put to him, and at his swift deciphering of the hieroglyphics and his skilful diagnosis, and he had not been able to help conveying the impression that he was taking a light-hearted view of the matter, when, in reality, he was perplexed and distressed beyond measure; for he still had no idea of what he was to do, and the threads of gossamer seemed to bind him more tightly than ever. 6 Anikin strolled away from Arkright, and as he walked towards the Pavilion he met Mrs. Roseleigh. She saw at a glance that he had a confidence to unload, and she determined to take the situation in hand, to say what she wanted to say to him before he would have time to say anything to her. After he had heard what she had to say he would no longer want to make any more confidences, and if he did, she would know how to deal with them. They strolled along the _Galeries_ till they reached a shady seat where they sat down. "You are out early," he said, "I particularly wanted----" "I particularly wanted to see you this morning," she said. "I wanted to talk to you about Lancelot Stukely. You know his story?" "Some of it," said Anikin. "He is going away." "Because of Donna Laura?" "Oh, it's not that." "I thought he was devoted to her." "He likes her. He thinks she's a very good sort. So she is, but she's a lot of other things too." "He doesn't know that?" "No, he doesn't know that." "You know how he wanted to marry Kathleen Farrel?" she said, after a moment's pause. "Yes," said Anikin, "I heard a little about it." "It was impossible before." "Because of money?" "Yes, but now it is possible. He's been left money," she explained. "He's quite well off, he could marry at once." "But if he doesn't want to?" "He does want to, that is just it." "Then why not? Because Miss Farrel does not like him?" "Kathleen _does_ like him _really_; at least she would like him really--only--" "There has been a misunderstanding," said Mrs. Roseleigh. She put an anxious note into her voice, slightly lowering it, and pressing down as it were the soft pedal of sympathy and confidential intimacy. "They have both misunderstood, you see; and one misunderstanding has reacted on the other. Perhaps you don't know the whole story?" "Do tell it me," he said. Once more he had the sensation of coasting or free-wheeling down a pleasant hill of perfect companionship. "Many years ago," said Mrs. Roseleigh, "she was engaged to Lancelot Stukely. She wouldn't marry him because she thought she couldn't leave her father. She couldn't have left him then. He depended on her for everything. But he died, and Lancelot, who was away, didn't come back and didn't write. He didn't dare, poor man! It was very silly of him. He thought he was too poor to offer her to share his poverty, but she wouldn't have minded. Anyhow he waited and time passed, and then the other day his uncle died and left him money, and he came back at once, and came here at once, to see her, not to see Donna Laura. That was just an accident, Donna Laura being here, but when he came here he thought Kathleen no longer cared, so he decided to go away without saying anything. "Kathleen had been longing for him to come back, had been expecting him to come back for years. She had been waiting for years. She was not normal from excitement, and then she had a shock and disappointment. She was not, you see, herself. She was susceptible to all influences. She was magnetic for the moment, ready for an electric disturbance; she was like a watch that is taken near a dynamo on board ship, it makes it go wrong. And now she realizes that she is going wrong and that she won't go right till she is demagnetized." "Ah!" said Anikin, "she realizes." "You see," said Mrs. Roseleigh gently, "it wasn't anyone's fault. It just happened." "And how will she be demagnetized?" asked Anikin. "Ah, that is just it," said Mrs. Roseleigh. "We must all try and help her. We must all try to show her that we want to help. To show her that we understand." Anikin wondered whether Mrs. Roseleigh was speaking on a full knowledge of the case, or whether she knew something and had guessed the rest. "I suppose," he said, "you have always known what has happened to Miss Farrel?" "I know everything that has happened to Kathleen," she said. "You see, I have known her for years. She's my best friend. And now I can judge just as well from what she doesn't say, as from what she says. She always tells me enough for it not to be necessary to tell me any more. If it was necessary, if I had any doubt, I could, and should always ask." "Then you think," said Anikin, "that she will marry Stukely?" "In time, yes; but not at once." Anikin remembered Stukely's conduct and was puzzled. "I am sure," he said, "that since he has been here he has made no effort." "Of course he didn't," she said, "He saw that it was useless. He knew at once." "Is he that kind of man, that knows at once?" "Yes, he's that kind of man. He saw directly; directly he saw her, and he didn't say a word. He just settled to go." Anikin felt this was difficult to believe; all the more difficult because he wanted to believe it. Was Mrs. Roseleigh making it easy, too easy? "But he's going back to Africa," he said. "How do you know?" she asked. "He told Mr. Asham, and he told me." "He will go to London first. Kathleen will not stay here much longer either. I am going soon to London, too, and I shall see Lancelot Stukely there before he goes away, and do my best. And if you see him----" "Before he goes?" "Before he goes," she went on, "if you see him, perhaps you could help too, not by saying anything, of course, but sometimes one can help----" "I have a dread," said Anikin, "of some explanations." "That is just what she doesn't want--explanations, neither he nor she," said Mrs. Roseleigh. "Kathleen wants us to understand without explanations. She is praying we may understand without her having to explain to us, or without our having to explain to her. She wants to be spared all that. She has already been through such a lot. She is ashamed at appearing so contradictory. She knows I understand, but she doubts whether any one else ever could, and she does not know where to turn, nor what to do." "And when you go to London," he asked, "will you make it all right?" "Oh yes," she said. "Are you quite sure you can make it all right? I mean with Stukely, of course," he said. "Of course," said Mrs. Roseleigh, but she knew perfectly well that he really meant all right with Kathleen. "And you think he will marry her, and that she will marry him?" he asked one last time. "I am quite sure of it," she said, "not at once, of course, but in time. We must give them time." "Very well," he said. He did not feel quite sure that it was all right. Mrs. Roseleigh divined his uncertainty and his doubts. "You see," she said, "what happened was very complicated. She knows that ever since Lancelot arrived, she was never really herself----" "She knows?" he asked. "She only wants to get back to her normal self." "Well," he said, "I believe you know best. I will do what you tell me. I was thinking of going to London myself," he added. "Do you think that would be a good plan? I might see Stukely. I might even travel with him." "That," said Mrs. Roseleigh, "would be an excellent plan." Mrs. Roseleigh's explanation, the explanation she had just served out to Anikin, was, as far as she was concerned, a curious blend of fact and fiction; of honesty and disingenuousness. She was convinced that both Kathleen and Anikin had made a mistake, and that the sooner the mistake was rectified the better for both of them. She thought if it was rectified, there was every chance of Stukely marrying Kathleen, but she had no reason to suppose that her explanation of his conduct was the true one. She thought Stukely had forgotten all about Kathleen, but there was no reason that he should not be brought back into the old groove. A little management would do it. He would have to marry now. He would want to marry; and it would be the natural, normal thing for him to marry Kathleen, if he could be persuaded that she had never cared for anyone else; and Mrs. Roseleigh felt quite ready to undertake the explanation. She was quite disinterested with regard to Kathleen and quite disinterested towards Stukely. Was she quite disinterested towards Anikin? She would not have admitted to her dearest friend, not even to herself, that she was not; but as a matter of fact she had consciously or unconsciously annexed Anikin. He was made to be charmed by her. She was not in the least in love with him, and she did not think he was in love with her; she was not a dynamo deranging a watch; she was a magnet attracting a piece of steel; but she had not done it on purpose. She had done it because she couldn't help it. Her conscience was quite clear, because she was convinced she was helping Kathleen, Stukely and Anikin out of a difficult and an impossible situation; but at the same time (and this is what she would not have admitted) she was pleasing herself. Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival first of Kathleen herself, then of Arkright. Kathleen had in her hands the copy of a weekly review. After mutual salutations had passed, Kathleen and Arkright sat down near Mrs. Roseleigh and Anikin. "Aunt Elsie," said Kathleen to Arkright, "asked me to give you back this. She is not coming down yet, she is very busy." She handed Arkright the review. "Ah!" said Arkright. "Did the article on Nietzsche interest her?" "Very much, I think," said Kathleen, "but I liked the story best. The story about the brass ring." "A sentimental story, wasn't it?" said Arkright. "What was it about?" asked Anikin. "Mr. Arkright will tell it you better than I can," said Kathleen. "I am afraid I don't remember it well enough," said Arkright. He remembered the story sufficiently well, although being of no literary importance, it had small interest for him; but he saw that Miss Farrel had some reason for wanting it told, and for telling it herself, so he pressed her to indicate the subject. "Well," she said, "it's about a man who had been all sorts of things: a soldier, a king, and a _savant_, and who wants to go into a monastery, and says he had done with all that the world can give, and as he says this to the abbot, a brass ring, which he wears round his neck, falls on to the floor of the cell. The ring had been given him by a queen whom he had loved, a long time ago, at a distance and without telling her or anyone, and who had been dead for years. The abbot tells him to throw it away and he can't. He gives up the idea of entering the monastery and goes away to wander through the world. I think he was right not to throw away the ring, don't you?" she said. "Do you think one ought never to throw away the brass ring?" said Anikin, with the incomparable Slav facility for "catching on," who instantly adopted the phrase as a symbol of the past. "Never," said Kathleen. "Whatever it entails?" Anikin asked. "Whatever it entails," she answered. "Have you never thrown away your brass ring?" asked Anikin, smiling. "I haven't got one to throw away," she said. "Then I will send you one from London, I am going there in a day or two," he said. "Mrs. Roseleigh was right," he said to himself, "no explanations are necessary." Mrs. Roseleigh looked at him with approval. Kathleen Farrel seemed relieved too, as though a weight too heavy for her to bear had been lifted from her, as though after having forced herself to keep awake in an alien world and an unfamiliar sunlight, she was now allowed to go back once more to the region of dreamless limbo. "Yes,", she said, "please send me one from London," as if there were nothing surprising or unexpected about his departure. In truth she was relieved. The episode at _Bellevue_ was as far away from her now as the dreams and adventure of her childhood. She felt no regret. She asked for no explanation. Anikin's words gave her no pang; nothing but a joyless relief; but it was with the slightest tinge of melancholy that she realized that she must be different from other people, and she would not have had things otherwise. As Arkright looked at her dark hair, her haunting eyes and her listless face, he thought of the Sleeping Beauty in the wood; and wondered whether a Fairy Prince would one day awaken her to life. He did not know her full story; he did not know that she was a mortal who had trespassed in Fairyland and was now paying the penalty. The enchanted thickets were closing round her, and the forest was taking its revenge on the intruder who had once rashly dared to violate its secrecy. He did not know that Kathleen Farrel had in more senses than one been overlooked. THE PAPERS OF ANTHONY KAY--Part II II Dr. Sabran read the papers I sent him the very same night he received them, and the following evening he asked me to dinner, and after dinner we sat on the verandah of his terrace and discussed the story. "I recognized Haréville," said Dr. Sabran, "of course, although his Saint-Yves-les-Bains might just as well have been any other watering-place in the world. I do not know his heroine, nor her aunt, even by sight, because I only arrived at Haréville two years ago after they had left, and last year I was absent. Princess Kouragine I have met in Paris. She and yourself therefore are the only two characters in the book whom I know." "He bored Princess Kouragine," I said. "Yes," said Sabran, "that is why he has to invent a Slav microbe to explain her indifference. But Mrs. Lennox flattered him?" "Very thoroughly," I said. "Well, the first thing I want to know is," said Sabran, "what happened? What happened then? but first of all, what happened afterwards?" I said I knew little. All I knew was that Miss Brandon was still unmarried; that Canning went back to Africa, stayed out his time, and had then come back to England last year; and that I had heard from Kranitski once or twice from Africa, but for the last ten months I had heard nothing, either from or of him. "But," I said, "before I say anything, I want you to tell me what you think happened and why it happened." "Well," said the doctor, "to begin with, I understand, both from your story as well as from his, that Kranitski and Miss Brandon were engaged to be married and that the engagement was broken off. But I also understood from your MS. that the man Canning was for nothing in the rupture of the engagement. It happened before he arrived. It was due, in my opinion, to something which happened to Kranitski. "Now, what do we know about Kranitski as related by you? First of all, that he was for a long time attached to a Russian lady who was married, and who would not divorce because of her children. "Then, from what he told you, we know that although a believing Catholic he said he had been outside the Church for seven years. That meant, obviously, that he had not been _pratiquant_. That is exactly what would have happened if he had been living with a married woman and meant to go on doing so. Then when he arrives at Haréville, he tells you that the obstacle to his practising his religion no longer exists. Kranitski makes the acquaintance of Miss Brandon, or rather renews his old acquaintance with her, and becomes intimate with her. Princess Kouragine finds she is becoming a different being. You go away for a month, and when you come back she almost tells you she is engaged--it is the same as if she told you. The very next day Kranitski meets you, about to spend a day at the lakes with Miss Brandon and evidently not sad--on the contrary. He received a letter in your presence. You are aware after he has read this letter of a sudden change in him. "Then a few days later he comes to see you and announces a change of plans, and says he is going to Africa. He also gives you to understand that the obstacle has not come back into his life. What obstacle? It can only be one thing, the obstacle he told you of, which was preventing him from practising his religion. "Now, what do we learn from the novel? "We learn from the novel that the day after that expedition to the lakes, Rudd describes the Russian having a conversation with the novelist (himself) in which he tells the novelist, firstly, that he is going away, probably to Africa. So far we know that he was telling the truth. Then he says that just as he found himself, as he thought, free, an old debt or tie or obligation rises up from the past which has to be paid or regarded or met. Rudd, in the person of Arkright, thinks he is inventing. They talk of conflicts and divided duties and the choice between two duties. The Russian is made to say that the most difficult complication is when duty and pleasure are both on one side and an obligation is on the other side, and one has to choose between them. The novelist gives no explanation of this, he treats it merely as a gratuitous piece of embroidery--a fantasy. "Now, I believe the Russian said what Rudd makes him say, because if he didn't it doesn't seem to me like the kind of fantasy the novelist would have invented had he been inventing. If he had been inventing, I think he would have found something else." "All the same," I interrupted, "we don't know whether he said that." "We don't know whether he said anything at all," said Sabran. "I know they had a conversation," I said, "because I was in the park all that morning and someone told me they were talking to each other. On the other hand, he may have invented the whole thing, as Rudd says that the novelist in his story knew about the Russian's former entanglement, and lays stress on the fact that the Russian did not know that he knew. So it may have been on that little basis of fact that all this fancy-work was built." "I think," said Sabran, "that the conversation did take place. And I think that it happened so. I think he spoke about the past and said that thing about the blotting paper. There is a poem of Pushkin's about the impossibility of wiping out the past." "And I think," I said, "that the Russian laughed, and said, 'You novelists are terrible people.' Only he was laughing at the novelist's density and not applauding his intuition." "Well, then," said Sabran, "let us postulate that the Russian did say what he was reported to have said to the novelist, and let us conclude that what he said was true." "In that case, the Russian said he was in the position of choosing between a pleasure, that is to say, something he wanted to do which was not contrary to his duty----" "For which duty might even be pleaded as an excuse," said Sabran, quoting the very words said to have been used by the Russian. "And an obligation which was contrary both to duty and to inclination. That is to say, there is something he wants to do. He could say it was his duty to do it. And there is something he doesn't want to do, and he can say it is contrary to his duty. And yet he feels he has got to do it. It is an obligation, something which binds him." "It is the old liaison," said Sabran. "In that case," I said, "why did he go to Africa?" "Yes, why did he go to Africa? And stay there at any rate such a long time. Did he talk of coming back?" "No, he said nothing about coming back. He said he liked the country and the life, but he said little about either. He wrote chiefly about books and abstract ideas." "Perhaps," said Sabran, "there is something else in his life which we know nothing about. There is another reason why I do not think that the old liaison is the obligation. He took the trouble to come and see you before he went away and to tell you that the obstacle which had prevented his practising his religion had not reappeared in his life. It is probable that he was speaking the truth. And he knew he was going to Africa. So it must be something else." "Perhaps," I said, "it was something to do with Canning. What are your theories about Canning, the other man?" "What are yours?" he said. "I heard nothing about him." I said I thought that all Mrs. Summer had told me about Canning was true. Rudd, I explained to Sabran, disliked Mrs. Summer, and had drawn a portrait of her as a swooping gentle harpy, which I knew to be quite false. "Although," I said, "I think the things he makes her say about Canning are quite true. I think he reports her thoughts correctly but attributes to her the wrong motives for saying them. I don't believe she ever talked to him about Canning; but he knew her ideas on the subject, through Mrs. Lennox. I believe that Canning arrived at Haréville on purpose to see Miss Brandon. I know that the Italian lady had played no part in his life and that it was just a chance that they met at Haréville. I believe he arrived full of hope, and that when he saw Miss Brandon he realized the situation as soon as he had spoken to her. This is what Rudd makes Mrs. Summer say, and I believe that is what happened. In Rudd's version of Mrs. Summer she is lying. Rudd had already a preconceived notion that Miss Brandon's first love was to forget her. He had made up his mind about that long before the young man came upon the scene, before he knew he was coming on the scene, and when he did, he distorted the facts to suit his fiction." "Then," said Sabran, "his ideas about Miss Brandon. All that idea of her being the 'Princess without dreams,' without passion, being muffled and half-awake--'overlooked,' as he says, which I suppose means _ensorcelée._" I told him I thought that was not only fiction but perfectly baseless fiction. I reminded him of what Princess Kouragine had said about Miss Brandon. "I must think it over," said Sabran. "For the present I do not see any completely satisfactory solution. I am convinced of one thing only, and that is that the novelist drew false deductions from facts which were perhaps sometimes correctly observed." I said I agreed with him. Rudd's deductions were wrong; his facts were probably right in some cases; Sabran's deductions were right, I thought, as far as they went; but we either had not enough facts or not enough intuition to arrive at a solution of the problem. As I was saying this, Sabran interrupted me and said: "If we only knew what was in the letter that the Russian received when he was with you we should have the key of the enigma. It was from the moment that he received that letter that he was different, wasn't it?" I said this was so, and what happened afterwards proved that it was not my imagination. "What in the world can have been in that letter?" said Sabran. I said I did not think we should ever know that. "Probably not," he said, musingly. "And that incident about the story of the Brass Ring. Do you think that happened? Did they say all that?" I was able to tell him exactly what had happened with regard to that incident. "I was sitting in the garden. It was, I think, the morning after they had all been to the lakes, and about the middle of the day, after the band had stopped playing, shortly before _déjeuner_, that Rudd, Miss Brandon, Kranitski and Mrs. Summer all came and talked to me before I went into the hotel. "Miss Brandon gave the copy of the _Saturday Review_, or whatever the newspaper was, back to Rudd, and mentioned the story of the 'Brass Ring,' and they discussed it, and I asked what it was about. Rudd was asked to read it aloud to us, and he did. Miss Brandon and Kranitski made no comments; and Rudd asked Kranitski if he thought the man had done right to throw away his ring, and Kranitski said: 'A chain is no stronger than its weakest link.' "Rudd said: 'Perhaps the brass ring was the strongest link.' "Kranitski and Miss Brandon said nothing, and Mrs. Summer said she was glad the man had not thrown the ring away. Then Rudd asked Miss Brandon whether she had ever thrown away her brass ring. "Miss Brandon said she hadn't got one, and changed the subject. Then they all left me. That was all that happened." "I understand," said Sabran; "that is interesting, and it helps us to understand the methods of the novelist. But we are still no nearer a solution. I must think it over. _Que diable y avait-il dans cette lettre?_" THE PAPERS OF ANTHONY KAY--PART II III The more I thought over the whole story the more puzzling it seemed to me. The puzzle was increased rather than simplified by a letter which I received from Kranitski from Africa, in which he expressed no intention of coming back, but said he was living by himself, quite contented in his solitude. I told Sabran of this letter and the Doctor said we were without one important _donnée,_ some probably quite simple fact which would be the clue of the whole situation: the contents of the letter Kranitski had received when he was with me-- "What we want," he said, "is a moral Sherlock Holmes, to deduce what was in that letter----" It was after I had been at Haréville about ten days, that Sabran asked me whether I would like to make the acquaintance of a Countess Yaskov. She was staying at Haréville and was taking the waters. He had only lately made her acquaintance himself, but she was dining with him and he wanted to ask a few people to meet her. I asked him what she was like. He said she was not exactly pretty, but gentle and attractive. He said: "_Elle n'est pas vraiment jolie, mais elle a une jolie taille, de beaux yeux, et des perles._" She had been divorced from her husband for years and lived generally at Rome, so he had been told. I went to Sabran's dinner. There were several people there. I had never met Countess Yaskov before. She seemed to be a very pleasant and agreeable lady. I sat next to her. She was an accomplished musician, and she played the pianoforte after dinner with a ravishing touch. She was certainly gentle, intelligent, and natural. We were talking of Italy, when she astonished me by saying she had not been there for some time. Later on she astonished me still more by talking of her husband in the most natural way in the world. But I had heard cases of Russians being divorced and yet continuing to be good friends. I longed to ask her if she knew Kranitski, but I could not bring his name across my lips. I asked her if she knew Princess Kouragine. She said, "Which one?" And when I explained or tried to describe the one I knew, there turned out to be about a dozen Princess Kouragines scattered all over Europe; some of them Russian and some of them not, so we did not get any further, and Countess Yaskov was vagueness itself. We talked of every conceivable subject. As she was going away she asked Sabran if he could lend her a book. He lent her Rudd's _Unfinished Dramas_, and asked me if he might lend her _Overlooked_. I said certainly, but I explained that it was more or less a private book about real people. Two or three days later I met her in the park. She asked me if I had read Rudd's story. I told her it had been read to me. "But it is meant to happen here, isn't it?" she said. "And aren't you one of the characters?" I said this was, I believed, the case. "Then you were here when all that happened?" she said. "Did it happen like that, or was it all an invention?" I said I thought there was some basis of fact in the story, and a great deal of fancy, but I really didn't know. I did not wish to let her know at once how much I knew. "Novelists," I said, "invent a great deal on a very slender basis, especially James Rudd." "You know him?" she said. "He was here with you, of course?" I told her I had made his acquaintance here, but that I had never seen him before or since. "What sort of man is he?" she asked. I gave her a colourless, but favourable portrait of Rudd. "And the young lady?" she said, "Miss--I've forgotten her name." "The heroine?" I asked. "Yes, the heroine who is 'overlooked.' Do you think she was 'overlooked'?" "In what sense?" "In the fairy-tale sense." I said I thought that was all fancy-work. "I wonder," she said, "if she married the young man." "Which one?" "The Englishman." I said I had not heard of her being married. "And was there a Russian here, too?" she asked. "Yes," I said, "his name was Kranitski." "That sounds like a Polish name." I said he was a Russian. "You knew him, too?" "Just a little." "It is an interesting story," she said, "but I think Rudd makes all the characters more complicated than they probably were. Does Mr. Rudd know Russia?" I said I believed not at all. "I thought not," she said. I said that Kranitski seemed to me a far simpler character than Rudd's Anikin. "Did Dr. Sabran know all those people?" she asked. I said Dr. Sabran had not been here while it was going on. "It would be very annoying for that poor girl to find herself in a book," she said, "if he published it." I said that Rudd would probably never publish it--although he would probably deny that he had made portraits, and to some extent with reason, as his Kathleen Farrel was quite unlike Miss Brandon. "Oh, her name was Miss Brandon," Countess Yaskov said, pensively. "If she comes here this year you must introduce me to her. I think I should like her." "Everyone said she was beautiful," I said. "One sees that from the novel. I suppose James Rudd invented a character which he thought suited her face." I said that that was exactly what had happened. Rudd had started with a theory about Miss Brandon, that she was such and such person, and he distorted the facts till they fitted with his theory. At least, that was what I imagined to have been the case. I asked Countess Yaskov what she thought of the psychology of Rudd's Russian. I said she ought to be a good judge. She laughed and said: "Yes, I ought to be a good judge. I think he is rather severe on the Slavs, don't you? He makes that poor Anikin so very complicated, and so very sly and fickle as well." I said I thought the excuses which Rudd credited the Russian with making to himself for breaking off the engagement with the heroine of the book, were absurd. "Do you think the Russian said those things or that the novelist invented them?" she asked. I said I thought he had said what he was reported to have said. "If he said that, he was not lying," she said. I agreed, and I also thought he _had_ said all that; but that Rudd's explanation of his words was wrong. If that was true he must have broken off his engagement. "There is nothing very improbable in that, is there?" she asked. "Nothing," I said. And yet I thought that Kranitski had finished with whatever there was in the past that might have been an obstacle to his present. "Did he tell you that?" she asked. As she said that, although the tone of her voice was quite natural, almost too natural, there was a peculiar intonation in the way she said the word "he," in that word and that word only, which gave me the curious sensation of a veil being lifted. I felt I was looking through a hole in the clouds. I felt certain that Countess Yaskov had known Kranitski. "He never told me one word that had anything to do with what Rudd tells in his novel," I said. I felt that my voice was no longer natural as I said this. There was a strain in it. There was a pause. I do not know why I now felt certain that Countess Yaskov possessed the key of the mystery. I suddenly felt she was the woman whom Kranitski had known and loved for seven years, so much so, that I could say nothing further. I also felt that she knew that I knew. We talked of other things. In the course of the conversation I asked her if she thought of staying a long time at Haréville. "It depends on my husband," she said. "I don't know yet whether he is coming here to fetch me, or whether he wants me to meet him. At any rate I shall go back to Russia for my boys' holidays. I have two sons at school." The next time I saw Sabran I asked him what he had meant by telling me that Countess Yaskov was divorced from her husband. I told him what she had said to me about her husband and her sons. He did not seem greatly surprised; but he stuck to his point that she was divorced. The next time I saw Countess Yaskov, she told me she had told a friend of hers about Rudd's story. Her friend had instantly recognized the character of Anikin. "My friend tells me," she said, "that the novelist is quite false as far as that character is concerned, false and not fair. She said what happened was this: The man whom Rudd describes as Anikin had been in love for many years with a married woman. She was in love with him, too, but she did not want to divorce her husband, for various reasons. So they separated. They separated after having known each other a long time. Then the woman changed her mind and she settled she would divorce, and she let Anikin know. She wrote to him and said she was willing, at last, to divorce. My friend says it was complicated by other things as well. She did not tell me the whole story, but the man went to Africa and the woman did not divorce. What Anikin was supposed to have said to the novelist was true. He told the truth, and the novelist thought he was saying false things. That is what you thought, too. But all has been for the best in the end, because do you know what there is in to-day's _Daily Mail_?" she asked. I said no one had read me the newspaper as yet. "The marriage is announced," she said, "of Miss Brandon to a man called Sir Somebody Canning." "That," said I, "is the Englishman in the book." "So Mr. Rudd was wrong altogether," she said, and she laughed. That is all that passed between us on this occasion, and I think this is a literal and complete transcription of our conversation. Countess Yaskov told me her story, the narrative of her friend, with perfect naturalness and with a quiet ease. She talked as if she were relating _facts_ that had no particular personal interest for her. There was not a tremor in her voice, not an intonation, either of satisfaction or pain, nothing but the quiet impersonal interest one feels for people in a book. She might have been discussing Anna Karenina, or a character of Stendhal. She was neutral and impartial, an interested but completely disinterested spectator. The tone of her voice was subtly different from what it had been the other day towards the end of our conversation. For during that conversation, admirably natural as she had been, and although her voice only betrayed her in the intonation of one syllable. I feel now, looking back on it, that she was not sure of herself, that she knew she was walking the whole time on the edge of a precipice. This time I felt she was quite sure of herself; sure of her part. She was word-perfect and serenely confident. Of course, what she said startled me. First of all, the _soi-disant_ explanation of her friend. Had she told a friend about the story? I thought not. Indeed, I feel now quite certain that the friend was an invention, quite certain that she knew I had recognized her as the missing factor in the drama, and that she had wished me not to have a false impression of Kranitski. But at the time, while she was talking she seemed so natural that for the moment I believed, or almost believed, in the friend. But when she told me of Miss Brandon's marriage she furnished me with the explanation of her perfect acting, if it was acting. I thought it was the possession of this piece of news which enabled her to tell me that story so calmly and so dispassionately. Of course I may still be quite wrong. I may be seeing too much. Perhaps she had nothing to do with Kranitski, and perhaps she did tell a friend. She has friends here. Nevertheless I felt certain during our first conversation, at the moment I felt I was looking through the clouds, that she had been aware of it; aware that I had not been able to go on talking of the story as naturally as I had done before. Her explanation, what her friend was supposed to have said, fitted in exactly with my suppositions, and with what I already knew. Sabran had been right. The clue to the whole thing was the letter. The letter that Kranitski had received when he was talking to me and which had made so sudden a change in him was the letter from her, from Countess Yaskov, saying she was ready to divorce and to marry him. He received this letter just after he was engaged to be married to Miss Brandon. It put him in a terrible situation. This situation fitted exactly with what Rudd made him say to the novelist in the story: his obligation to the past conflicted with his inclination, namely, his desire to marry Miss Brandon. Of course I might be quite wrong. It might all be my imagination. The next day I got a belated letter, from Miss Brandon, forwarded from Cadenabbia, telling me of her engagement. She said they were to be married at once, quite quietly. She knew it was no use asking me, but if I had been in London, etc. She made no other comments. That evening I dined with Sabran. I told him the news about Miss Brandon, and I told him what Countess Yaskov had told me her friend had told her about the story. "Half the problem is solved," he said. "The story of Countess Yaskov's friend explains the words which Rudd lends to the Russian. His inclination, which was to marry Miss Brandon, coincides with the religious duty of a _croyant_, which is not to marry a _divorcée_, and not to put himself once more outside the pale of the Church, but it clashes with his obligation, which is to be faithful to his friend of seven years. His inclination coincides with his duty, but his duty is in conflict with his obligation. What does he do? He goes away. Does he explain? Who knows? He was, indeed, in a _fichu_ situation. And now Miss Brandon marries the young man. Either she had loved him all the time, or else, feeling her romance was over, she was marrying to be married. In any case, her novel, so far from being ended, is only just beginning. And the Russian? Was it a real _amour_ or a _coup-de-tête_? Time will show. For himself he thought it was only a _coup-de-tête_: he will go back to his first love, but she will never divorce." I asked him again whether he was sure that Countess Yaskov was divorced from her husband. He was quite positive. He knew it _de source certaine_. She had been divorced years ago, and she lived at Rome. I was puzzled. In that case, why did she try and deceive me, and at the same time if she wanted to deceive me why did she tell me so much? Why did she give me the key of the problem? I said nothing of that to Sabran. I saw it was no use. A few days later, Countess Yaskov left Haréville. She told me she was going to join her husband. I did not remain long at Haréville after that. A few days before I left, Princess Kouragine arrived. I told her about Miss Brandon's marriage. She said she was not surprised. Canning deserved to marry her for having waited so long. "But," she said, "he will never light that lamp." I asked her if she was sorry for Kranitski. She said: "_Very_, but it could not be otherwise." That is all she said. When I told her that I had made the acquaintance of Countess Yaskov, she said: "Which one?" I said it was the one who lived in Rome and who was separated from her husband. The next day she said to me: "You were mistaken about Countess Yaskov. The Countess Yaskov who was here is Countess _Irina_ Yaskov. She is not divorced, and she lives in Russia now. The one you mean is Countess Helene Yaskov. She lives at Rome. They are not relations even. You confused the two, because they both at different times lived at Rome." I now saw why I had been put off the scent for a moment by Sabran. I asked her if she knew my Countess Yaskov. She said she had met her, but did not know her well. "She is a quiet woman," she said. "_On dit qu'elle est charmante_." Just about this time I received a long letter from Rudd. He said he must publish _Overlooked._ He had been told he ought to publish it by everybody. He might, he said, just as well publish it, since printing five hundred copies and circulating them privately was in reality courting the maximum of publicity: the maximum in quality if not in quantity. By doing this, one made sure that the only people it might matter reading the book, read it. He did not care who saw it, in the provinces, in Australia, or in America. The people who mattered, and the only people who mattered, were friends, acquaintances and the London literary world, and now they had all seen it. Besides which, his series of unfinished dramas would be incomplete without it; and he did not think it was _fair_ on his publisher to leave out _Overlooked_. "Besides which," he said, "it is not as if the characters in the books were portraits. You know better than anyone that this is not so." He ended up, after making it excruciatingly clear that he had irrevocably and finally made up his mind to publish, by asking my advice; that is to say, he wanted me to say that I agreed with him. I wrote to him and said that I quite understood why he had settled to publish the story, and I referred to Miss Brandon's marriage at the end of my letter. Before I heard from him again, I was called away from Haréville, and I had to leave in a hurry. It was lucky I did so, because I got away only just in time, either to avoid being compelled to remain at Haréville for a far longer time than I should have wished to do, or from having to take part in a desperate struggle for escape. The date of my departure was July 27th, 1914. The morning I left I said good-bye to Princess Kouragine, and I reminded her that when I had said good-bye to her two years ago she had said to me, talking of Miss Brandon: "The _man_ behaved well." I asked her which man she had meant. She said: "I meant the other one." "Which do you call the other one?" I asked. She said she meant by the other one: "_Le grand amoureux_." I said I didn't know which of the two was the "_grand amoureux_." "Oh, if you don't know that you know nothing," she said. At that moment I had to go. The motor-bus was starting. I feel that Princess Kouragine was right and that, after all, perhaps I know nothing. 
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30261	----	Claire by Leslie Burton Blades THE BLIND LOVE OF A BLIND HERO _BY A BLIND AUTHOR_ [Transcriber's Note: This novel was originally serialized in four installments in All-Story Weekly magazine from October 5, 1918, to October 26, 1918. The original breaks in the serial have been retained, but summaries of previous events preceding the second and third installments have been moved to the end of this e-book. The Table of Contents which follows the introduction was created for this electronic edition.] On the editorial page of last week's ALL-STORY WEEKLY we announced a new serial by a new author. "Claire" is a story of such subtle insight, of so compassionate an understanding of human nature, and of so honest an attack on the eternal problem of love and living, that it can well afford to take its chances on its own merits. But _Lawrence Gordon_, the blind hero of the triangle tragedy, which runs its inevitable course in the mountain cabin of _Philip Ortez_, takes on a new interest, when we learn that his creator is himself a blind man. Born of mining people in Colorado, Blades lost two fingers and the sight of both eyes when as a lad of nine years he refused to take the dare of some playmates and set off a giant firecracker. While still a youth he entered the Colorado State School for the Blind. Here he spent six years. In the crash at Creede, when the bottom fell out of so many mining fortunes, the Blades family lost their all. Then young Blades took up the burden of his own keep. For two successful years he maintained himself at the University of Colorado by teaching music. When the family moved to Oregon, the indomitable Leslie followed. At Eugene he entered the State University and continued to support himself by music and lectures. After receiving his degrees of B.A. and M.A. he was a substitute teacher in the English Department. For some time he has made his home at San Dimas, where his regular contributions on a variety of themes to the magazine section of _The Express_ have brought him something more than local prestige. He is deeply interested in the drama, and has several plays to his credit. "When He Came Home," a play of his dealing with the return of a blind soldier from the war, has become a favorite with one of the California circuits. "Claire" is his first novel, and though he is still on the sunny side of thirty, this arresting story is a promising portent of what we may expect from the powerful pen of this blind man with an artist's vision.--THE EDITOR. TABLE OF CONTENTS I. DISASTER. 256 II. THE WATER OF LIFE. 260 III. THE WAY OF THE PRIMITIVE. 262 IV. MUTUAL DISLIKE. 266 V. THE FACE OF DEATH. 269 VI. THE STONE THREAT. 274 VII. PLAYING WITH FIRE. 498 VIII. THE TIGHTENING NET. 501 IX. CLAIRE'S ABASEMENT. 505 X. HOW SIMPLE THE SOLUTION! 509 XI. THE MAKING OF A KNIGHT ERRANT. 513 XII. THE UNHORSING OF A KNIGHT ERRANT. 697 XIII. FAINT HEART AND FAIR LADY. 702 XIV. PHILIP TO THE RESCUE. 706 XV. UTTER EXHAUSTION. 711 XVI. THE QUESTION ANSWERED. 714 XVII. ANGLES OF A TRIANGLE. 151 XVIII. THE ROMANTIC REALIST. 155 XIX. THE LAST DISCUSSION. 160 XX. THE LAW OF LIFE. 164 XXI. INTO THE SUNLIGHT. 168 CHAPTER I. DISASTER. In the confusion Lawrence stood still. Over the howling wind and smashing sea, he heard thin voices shouting orders. Another mass of water swept over the deck. Near him a woman screamed piteously. Instinctively, the masculine desire to protect womanhood made him ache to help her, but he bit his lip and clung to the rail. If he could only see! Never before in his five years of blindness had he felt the full horror of it. He had taught himself to forget his loss of sight. It is useless to waste time in sentimental moping, he would say, but now-- "God, when will it end?" he muttered savagely. The City of Panama lurched back and forth like a rocking-horse. Somewhere forward they must be lowering the boats. He stumbled along the deck, holding to the rail for support. The spray dashed in his face, and he could feel the water from his hair trickling into his ears. He shook his head and laughed grimly, but he could not hear his own laughter. The terrific noise of the wind drowned everything else. It became increasingly difficult to keep his hold on the rail. He was wet to the waist. Each time the wave struck him higher, and he noticed that the lurching grew heavier. He was strong, six feet of hard muscle, but the water was stronger. His mouth was filled with it, and his ears seemed bursting. His rugged features twisted into hard lines. As he struggled forward, he raged at the blindness that kept him from seeing. "Not a chance, not a chance," he repeated over and over, as he strained to hold the deck. There was a lull in the wind, and he marveled at the absence of human sound. Suddenly he divined the cause. His mind became a chaos of rage and fear. "They have left me," he cried; "left me without a thought." He shut his teeth hard, then ducked as another heavy beating weight of water crashed over him. It seemed it would never lift and leave him free to breathe. His arms and feet no longer seemed a part of him. He wondered if the vessel were under the surface, and nerved himself to let go. But he could not. The rail was his only hope of life. Slowly the water began to draw his fingers away from it. The next surge sent his body out--somewhere. He struck forward with both hands and kicked his feet mechanically. Was it the roar of the wind or the weight of the water itself that beat into his ears? The sudden pain in his lungs, told him that he had reached the surface. How good the air felt! Shaking the water out of his ears, he listened. Nothing but the wind was audible. It seemed to him that he had been swimming for hours in the icy waves. Events on the ship, the shock of the boiler explosion, the rush for the deck, all seemed to have happened long ago. "If I could only see," he thought, "I might find the ship again." It occurred to him that he might be swimming in a circle, and he resolved to keep in one direction, but how? He remembered that he had always tended to swim to the left, so he increased his right-arm stroke. Suddenly a heavy timber struck him. He gasped with pain, and sank under the surface. When he came up, his hand struck the same piece of wood. With a desperate effort, he dragged himself up on it, twisting his arms and legs about it to maintain his hold. The water, swirled by the wind, lashed him as he lay on the timber. "Land may be within sight," he thought, "and I shall never know." His fear and the cold began to work upon his imagination. He had a clear mental picture of a sandy beach backed with trees. He felt sure he was being carried past it into the open sea. Hours passed. He began to rave at the water, at life, at everything. Mixed, tangled masses of images heaped themselves in utter disorder in his brain: passages of verse, bits of his trained laboratory jargon, phrases from half-forgotten books, the delicate curves of the Water Sprite at the exposition, and, above all, a fierce gnawing pain in his side. Over the roar of the wind he heard something else. Was it the tumbling of breakers? He listened, then concluded that it was his imagination. But they came nearer, louder; he sat up on his plank, his nerves tense. The board lurched sidewise, spurn around, and the swell it was riding broke over him with a force that knocked him from his position. Over and over he rolled, until, almost unconscious, he felt his body dragging along the sand. The undertow was pulling at him. He fought furiously, digging his hands into the sand, and clawing desperately up the steep sloping beach. The next breaker caught him and rolled him past the water-line. He scrambled to his feet, and ran shakily ahead, neither knowing nor caring what was before him. Behind him he heard the water sweeping in. He was out of its reach, but still he ran. A rock caught him above the knees and sent him headlong into the sand. He became unconscious, and lay still, half doubled up. When he recovered consciousness and sat up, a fierce sun was beating down upon him. His head ached, and he was hungry. "There may be people within call," he thought. Rising unsteadily, the soreness of his muscles coming home to him, he gave a prolonged "Hello-o." A faint echo was his answer. He formed a trumpet of his hands and shouted louder. The echo came back stronger. "Only cliffs," he concluded. The gnaw of hunger increased. "Clams are my best chance," he reasoned, and, turning, he groped his way to the water. When the incoming breakers washed his knees, he stopped. The intense dread that his experience had given him was crying retreat, but he stood his ground. Stooping over, he began digging in the sand. His cut and bleeding hands burned with the salt water, but he dug steadily, moving rapidly along the beach. At last his fingers turned up a round, ridged object. Feeling the edge of it he knew that he had found what he sought. He wanted to eat the clam at once, but reluctantly dropped it into his pocket, and went on digging. When he had filled his pocket he straightened up and started toward the shore. As he waded through the last shallow wash of the wave, his foot caught in something soft, and he fell. He rose, and then on second thought stooped to feel what had tripped him. His hand touched a mass of wet, tangled hair. He jerked it back hurriedly and screamed. The strain he had been under was telling. Nerving himself, he reached again, and touched a face. "A woman! Another human being! Thank God!" Then he clutched his throat in desperation. She might be dead. He stooped and dragged the body up on the sand. He was afraid to find out if she were dead or alive, and sat beside her, timidly touching her hair. "Fool!" he muttered at last. "If she is not dead, she soon will be." He leaned over, listening for her breathing. At first there was only the sound of the waves, then he heard her breathing come faintly. He took off his coat, emptied out the clams, and dipped it in the ocean. Coming back, he wrung it out over her face. He knelt beside her, and rubbed her arms and throat. His hands were his trained observers. As he worked over her, they gave him a detailed picture which sank deep into his memory. She was splendidly made. His fingers caught the delicate curve of her throat and shoulders. Her skin was satin to his touch. He knew that the fine hair, the smooth skin, the curve and grace of her body belonged to a beautiful woman. Taking her arms, he worked them vigorously. When he was beginning to despair, she coughed, moaned a little, and turned over on her side. He wondered if she had her eyes open. He dared not feel to see, and sat silent, anxious, waiting for her to speak. It seemed to him that eternity passed before she murmured, "Oh, oh! Where am I?" "I do thank God," he exclaimed earnestly. "Where am I?" she repeated as she sat up. "I do not know," he answered. "Presumably somewhere on the coast of Chile." Her eyes opened very wide and gazed at him as she said, "Are we the only ones?" "I cannot tell," he replied, smiling a little. "I am blind, you see." "Yes, I know," she said softly. "I saw you on shipboard." "The first consciousness I had of you," he continued, "was when I stumbled over you while getting my breakfast." "Breakfast? Where is it?" He laid one hand on the pile of clams. She looked down at them, and burst out laughing, uncontrollably. "It is not much," he said, "but we primitive people are simple in our needs. I worked to get them, goodness knows." She was looking around her, twisting her long brown hair in her hands. At last she shuddered. "It's desperately lonely. Nothing but sea and mountains. I'm afraid I can't walk," she said. "Good God!" he exclaimed. "Can't walk?" She turned toward him, smiling faintly. "I was struck when I washed overboard, and my ankle, I think, is broken. I am sorry," she added. Her tone was slightly apologetic, and he laughed nervously. "Oh, that's all right," he said, assuringly, then stammered, "I mean--" He hesitated, and she laughed. "I mean that we can get along," he continued, stubbornly. "Heaven knows I am sorry. But you can't realize what it means to have some one near you who can see." She did not answer for a minute, then said quietly: "Shall we breakfast before beginning anything else?" He reached in his pocket for his penknife. It was gone. The blank expression of disgust on his face made her ask: "What is it?" "My knife," he said. "It is gone." They sat opposite each other, the clams between them. Each followed a different trend of ideas. He was raging at this last mishap, and considering means of opening the clams. She was conjecturing over the fate of the City of Panama and wondering what she could do, alone here with this blind man. Her night-gown and a heavy skirt had been all she had worn when she had rushed on deck in the night. She looked around her at the rocks and thought how foolish she had been to leave her shoes. At last he rose and began to grope back along the beach. Noticing that his hands were torn and bleeding, she said, hastily: "Don't do that. What are you looking for, anyway?" "Stones," he answered, stopping. "I will direct you," she to him. "Left--right--a little ahead now." Guided by her, he moved until his hand touched a small stone. He found two of them and came back to her side. She watched him while he tried to break a clam-shell between the two rocks. "Let me," she said, taking hold of one of them. "Your hands are too badly cut." He hesitated. "Please," she said. "I can at least do the woman's part and prepare the meal. Especially when you bring it to me." He laughed and gave up the stones. "I am desperately thirsty," she said, breaking open the shells. "I feel as though my tongue were swelling fast," he admitted. They dug the tiny clams from the shells, and ate for a few minutes in silence, then she said: "I can't go any more of them." He wondered if she were not hungry, but said nothing. After eating a few more, he understood. Then he, too, stopped. "I've got to find water," he said. He waited for her to speak. At last she said: "I can see nothing that might indicate fresh water. Where will you go?" "Up the beach, I suppose." "There are mountains up the beach, and back of us, too. You could never find your way out." Her tone was despairing. "True," he admitted. There was a long pause. Then she said slowly: "It seems to be your only hope, doesn't it? Well, I guess you had better go. God bless you!" she concluded as though it were her last word. Suddenly it occurred to him that he had been thinking and talking of himself alone. The idea of parting from this woman who could see, whom it seemed to him he had found as his own means of salvation, immediately became impossible. "I am going to take you with me," he stated quietly. "You forget," she said, "I cannot walk." He had forgotten it for the moment. Now it filled him with new terror. He laid his hand on hers. "I can't help it," he said finally, "I can't leave you. I will carry you." "Oh, no!" Her protest was genuine. He felt her fear that she would hamper him. "Don't be foolish," he said as though he had known her for years, "I am not being gallant. This is not a time for gallantry. I am simply being sensible. You can't sit here, can you?" "I can't help myself, can I? I can't walk." "I can help it," he retorted. "It would simply make your chance of escape impossible," she argued. "It is preposterous. Why should you? Your life is worth to you as much as mine is to me. I know what that means. I would not stay here if I could help it. I would not sacrifice my life for yours. Neither shall you sacrifice yours for mine." "See here," he demanded, "who are you and where did you get that attitude toward life?" It was one he knew. It was the hard, relentless theory of the struggle of animal survival which his thinking in college had led him to accept. There was in it no touch of duty, no sense of obligation, and very little pity. He had called himself a hard materialist, and had never lived up to his theory. Now here beside him in this outlandish situation was a woman quietly arguing his own philosophy of life to him against herself. She laughed. "It's my way of thinking, and I mean it," she said, twisting her hair up on her head. "I got it out of four years of thought and reading in a college, and I do not thank the college for it. I find it very inconvenient, but it is my belief. I have tried to live by it." "So is it mine," he said, "and I mean to live by it." "Very well," she answered. "That aggressive tone against me is not necessary. Go ahead and get through if you can. Good-by, my friend." "I'm afraid you do not understand," he answered her steadily. "I want to live. To do it, you are necessary to me. I need your eyes. Very well, whether you like it or not, you are going with me." He rose quickly, and stretched his muscles. His head ached, his whole being cried for water. He knew he could not carry her far, but without her he was powerless. "Suppose," she suggested, her eyes flashing from hazel to deep-brown, "suppose you do take me. Have you any assurance that my eyes will serve you rightly?" "Your own life, which is pleasant to you, will depend upon your eyes serving me rightly," he said coldly, as he stooped over her. She laid a restraining hand on his arm. "And in the long days that we may have to go on together, what will you do in return for my eyes?" "Carry you," he answered. "Very well, but there are two things you must know," she said quietly. "First, that I am married; second, that I am quite as steadfast in my belief as I said. If you make one single attempt to establish more than a frank comradeship, based on mutual support in our unforeseen partnership, my eyes will serve you falsely." He laughed a little as he picked her up. She gasped with pain. "I can't help hurting you," he said gently. "It's all right," she answered, putting her arm around his neck so that he might the more easily bear her. "We are off on our great adventure. The halt and the blind! Such a mad pair!" He smiled, and started slowly up the beach. "I shall have to develop a system of one word guides," she mused. "Left--right--slow--ahead--all right--and so on," he admitted. Suddenly she laughed out merrily. "My friend, a stranger pilgrimage the world never knew. What is your name?" "Lawrence," he said. "Mine," she answered, "is Claire. Go a little to the left." He turned slightly, and plodded through the sand. CHAPTER II. THE WATER OF LIFE. Still exhausted from his recent battle with the waves, Lawrence was not in the best condition for this new struggle. Before he had gone far, he was forced to rest. He lowered Claire to the ground carefully and dropped beside her. His effort in carrying her had made him breathe hard, the sun was beating down on them, and his throat was dry and parched. Speaking was becoming difficult. "If we don't find water soon, we're ended," he managed to say. "I'm afraid we are," she admitted. "Do you know, Lawrence, you shouldn't try to carry me. I weigh over a hundred and thirty pounds. That is too much for any man. Without me, you might make it, even though you couldn't travel so steadily ahead." "Perhaps," he agreed. "I've thought of that. But, you see, I would have to feel my way. At best I'd get a lot of falls. I might walk off a precipice. That doesn't appeal to me, now that I've set myself to winning." "And yet you are almost certain to wear yourself out to no purpose if you carry me," she repeated. "If you could do it and get me through, I'd never stop you. I've a husband in America who loves me, and I want to get back to him, but you aren't equal to it. I see no advantage in dying a mile or ten miles inland. For one's grave, this is as good a place as any." She spoke of dying in a matter-of-fact way that made him feel strange, though he thought of it in exactly the same way himself. He believed that he was a mere animal and that death was a mere cessation of energy. "I wonder if she feels just as I do about it," he pondered. "Perhaps not. But it can't matter anyway. Here we are, and death does seem fairly certain." He was breathing more regularly now, though his throat burned and his tongue stuck to his mouth disagreeably. "We'd better be moving," he said, rising with an effort. "As you please," she assented. Then, as he lifted her: "My ankle is swollen dreadfully. If we could find water, I'd bathe it and put a stick splint on it." He did not answer. Silence fell between them while he plodded ahead. They started up the mountainside, and the way became increasingly difficult. There was a dense undergrowth through which he was compelled to shove his feet. There were rocks which she could not see, down which he was constantly slipping. Her directions barely kept him from bumping into the trees that grew closer and closer together. Occasionally she pushed a branch aside from before him, and laughed as he stooped to pass under, throwing her forward so that she had to cling to his neck to keep her position. On and on he forced his way, his teeth clenched, his breath broken by the strain. She made herself as easy to carry as she could, but beyond that she showed no sign of sympathy. Again and again he was obliged to stop and put her down while he rested. His head was throbbing frightfully. He gave up trying to talk. During one of their frequent rests she had asked him quietly, her eyes filled with a soft, calculative haze: "How much are you good for, Lawrence?" He had answered: "Till we find water." She had laughed a little at that, and it had sounded unpleasant to him. Now she said again: "You don't face facts, do you?" He made no answer. She continued: "It's strange how we humans are always so overdetermined. One ought to know by the time he is grown that he is a puppet in the hands of circumstance. Now I go on hoping that you can carry me out to life and my husband, and you plod determinedly on as if you were really able to do it. Of course, you may, but it is entirely dependent upon outside things." He was too tired to answer, even to think. Besides, that was exactly his view of the situation. "You see," she went on, "here we are, two distinct groups of living cells, each loving life and wanting it. Our pasts have been very different, our futures would have been; but here we are. I am resentful, because you are blind, because you are not stronger, because I cannot walk. You are probably resenting the same things. Perhaps you resent my saying what I do. You want me to reassure you and to promise success. If I did, you would know in your real mind that I was lying to you for the sake of getting you to do more. Yet both of us would feel happier if I could do it. I can't." He stood up and took her in his arms without a word. "We are going a few yards farther," she laughed. "Well, if ever any animal deserved life, you do." He bit his lip and climbed on up the hill. In his mind he was saying over and over: "Just a mere intellect, nothing more. That's all she is." Yet in his arms she felt very feminine. The sense of her body so close to him seemed strangely out of keeping with her talk. He remembered a few other women of her type; he wondered what the end of their daily association would be. Then gradually his thinking ceased to be clear. His thirst more and more wove itself into his consciousness until his mind was a blurred fantasmagoria, in which, repeating itself over and over in the midst of strange ideas, would come the flashing sound of unattainable water. He did not talk, he did not think. Through the trees he wound his way with the grim determination of a beast fighting against death. The sun passed its zenith and sank slowly. It grew cooler in the forest through which he lurched, but he was hardly aware of it. Claire, too, was rapidly losing control over herself. She had ceased to talk, save to utter dull, monosyllabic commands to him. The pain from her ankle and her own thirst were blending into a dizzying maze of torture. As darkness settled over the forest, she grew afraid. Ordinarily it would have been a delight to her, here among the trees, but now the shadowing night filled her with ideas of horror. She forgot her theories, and clung to him so that he was the more hampered. She grew afraid lest he should drop her, lest he should give up the fight, and with that came an overwhelming desire to urge him on. She thought of wild tales that she might tell to spur his faltering strength. At first she resisted, then as her desire for life grew within her, she began to lie to him. "It isn't far, just a little way to water," she whispered. He struggled unsteadily forward. They had passed the top of the ridge and were descending the other side. He was scarcely aware of his own motion. He did not hear her directions, and stumbled against the trees. When her ankle struck a bough, she realized in a flash of pain that he was not listening to her. Then she felt him sinking down. Gripping his shoulder, she shouted: "Go on! Water ahead!" He heard her, his mouth opened, and he gathered himself up to stumble a few steps farther through the darkness. They seemed to be deep in a wooded ravine. He staggered again and fell. She was thrown violently forward, and flung out a hand to save herself. As she lay there, half-dazed, suddenly she felt her fingers grow cold and wet. Water! A small stream, no larger than that from a hydrant, was trickling over the rock. Dragging herself to it, she drank greedily. She dipped her hands in it. She laughed joyously and splashed. For a few minutes she played like a child. Then she remembered Lawrence. Lifting her hands full of water, she threw it on his face. His mouth was open, and a few drops fell upon his black tongue. She threw another handful, then took her skirt and, wetting it, wrung it into his mouth. He twisted over on his side and muttered: "Water." She gave him more, and as he sat up, she said eagerly: "Here, Lawrence, here." Taking his hand, she pulled him toward the stream. He drank ravenously, plunging his face and hands into the little line of water, making queer noises over it. Claire began to grow cold, and her ankle pained her till she shook like a fevered person. He turned and sat up. "You cold?" he managed to mutter. She wanted to say "No," but her will was worn out. "Yes," she answered, "very cold." He laughed a little guttural laugh as he drew off his coat. "Take it," he said, dropping it near her hand. She took the coat and drew it on. Lawrence was drinking again from the stream. She listened to him for a time, as she lay there in the darkness, then gradually her suffering and the strain under which she had been, won the victory over her consciousness, and she heard no more. He lay where he was, half unconscious. At last he began to feel the chill of the place and drew himself up toward Claire. She did not move. "We've got to do the best we can," he thought, and moved close to her so that their bodies might warm each other. CHAPTER III. THE WAY OF THE PRIMITIVE. Claire was the first to wake. She sat up and gazed around her. The morning sun was just breaking through a heavy fog that had drifted in from the ocean. Her clothes were damp, and she was chilled through, while her swollen and discolored ankle throbbed with steady pain. She looked down at the sleeping man beside her, and her forehead gathered in a little thoughtful frown. Then she looked around her again. Despite the knowledge of their desperate situation, she could not help noticing the beauty of the scene. Great trees grew in massive profusion all about them. Heavy tropical moss hung from the branches and trailed its green mat over the stones. Birds were beginning to sing, their notes breaking the silence of the place in sharp thrills. Then she studied her companion. Finally, she laughed aloud. "Lawrence," she said gaily. He turned and sat up, yawning drowsily. "What is it?" he demanded. "We are certainly the primitive pair." "H-m, I suppose. Anyhow, I feel better for my sleep." "It's beastly cold," returned Claire, "and my ankle is playing fits and jerks with me." "We'll have to do something about it," he said earnestly. She did not answer. "We can bind it up, I presume," he went on. "But it's a frightful inconvenience." "Admitted," she said quickly. "It can't be helped, however." "I'm very much for a fire," he suggested, as though he had not noticed the hints of hardness in her voice. "Some twenty feet ahead is a flat rock. We might build one there. Have you matches?" He shook his head. "We'll have to go it primeval." "But I don't see how," she began. "Never mind," he answered, with a malicious grin. "I do know some few things." "Perhaps you also know how to find food when there isn't any," she retorted. He rose without replying. "Well," she continued, "I see plenty of roots and stuff. We may as well prepare to eat them. It's unbelievable that I should be here, and with you. It's a horrible nightmare, this being stranded and lame out here somewhere with a blind man." He winced, but answered quietly: "I'm not especially charmed myself. I could prefer other things." She looked at him and smiled. "Don't ever let me repeat those sentiments," she said, simply. "I'm sorry. Of course you aren't to blame, and I shouldn't have said that." He stepped forward timidly. "Will you suggest the best means of finding dry wood?" he asked, as though the matter were forgotten. She pursed her lips and looked around her. "This moss seems to be feet deep," she said at last. "You might dig up some that is dry, and with that as a starter you can add twigs." He stopped and began to tear away the moss. His hands were stiff, but he worked rapidly and before long he had a heap of the brown, dry stuff from underneath. She watched him silently. When he stopped, she said: "Straight to your left is the rock. Get the fire started. Then you can move the invalid." He took the moss and felt his way to the rock, which was eight or ten feet square and practically flat, standing up almost a foot from the ground. "Now, for a dry stick or two," he said, cheerily. She directed him, and at last he found what he thought would do. Then began the age-old procedure of twisting a pointed stick between one's hands, the point resting on another piece of wood, until friction brought a flame. It was a long, hard experiment; several times he stopped to rest; but the consciousness of the skeptical expression he knew to be on her face sent him quickly back again to his task. At last the moss began to burn. True, it smoked much and flamed little, but he gathered twigs from the shrubs near by and in time had a good fire. Then he carried Claire to the rock and set her down beside it. She leaned her elbow on the edge and said, happily: "It's quite a success, Lawrence. I really feel as though we were progressing." "Our woodcraft will doubtless improve with experience," he answered. "Next, I guess we had better bathe your ankle," he observed, as though giving due care to the order of procedure. "Very well," she replied. At her suggestion he gathered moss and wet it in the tiny stream. She wound it about her ankle and held it tightly. "Now the surgeon orders splints and bandages," she said. He brought several sticks, and with a strip which she tore from the lining of his coat, she bound them fast. "There," she said, sighing, for the pain was wearing. "That ought to help. I wonder what our distant grandparents did in such cases." "Made the best of it," he said cheerfully. "Many of them died, I suppose." "And we are back again at their game. Whether we can outwit the master strategist and survive, is at least interesting to try." "In any event, we'll have to eat to do it," he said shortly. She studied the greenery about her, meditatively. "It's probable that most any of these things are edible, but are they nourishing?" "We'll try them. Which shall I get?" he asked. "I hate to start in on roots or leaves. If we only had some berries!" He got up determinedly. "I'll go down the ravine and hunt. If I get mixed in directions, I'll shout." She watched him go, and when he had disappeared through the trees she felt strangely sadder and very much alone. She fell to wondering if he were really so necessary to her. Sooner or later would come the inevitable problem between them. Would he fall in love with her, and would she, in the days that they might be alone together, find his companionship growing into any really vital proportion in her life? That she, Claire Barkley, rich and independent, whose life had been selfish to a marked degree and who had never considered anything except from the point of view of vigor, perfection, or beauty, should ever love a blind man was incredible. "No," she thought, "not even the closest of daily relationships with him could ever make me really care. He is not of my life." She wondered how much she would sacrifice for him if it were necessary in their pilgrimage toward civilization, and she answered herself, frankly: "No more than I must to maintain a balance in our forced business partnership." She knew that was all this meant to her. From down the ravine she heard him shouting lustily, and she answered, her clear, rich voice waking pleasant echoes as she called. She waited for some time before he came. In his arms he carried a bundle of branches loaded with red berries, while in one hand was a clump of large mushrooms. Claire watched him as he approached, and was surprised at the ease with which he walked. There was less hesitation in his stride than she had thought, and he came briskly through the trees, dodging as though by instinct. When he reached the rock, it was characteristic of her that she said: "You came through those trees remarkably well." He laughed. "I have an uncanny way of feeling things on my face before they touch me. I experimented somewhat with it in the laboratory at college. It's a sort of tropism, perhaps, such as bugs have, that enables them to keep between two planks or that turns plant-roots toward the sun. Anyway, I've brought some breakfast. These berries may be good, and these other things may be toadstools. I brought them along." "How does one tell?" she asked. "Oh, mushrooms are pink underneath and ribbed like a fan." She examined them and said they might be mushrooms, they looked it. He sat down again, but not until he had replenished the fire. "They may be poison, both of them," he hazarded. "That's our sporting chance. Will you try them?" Claire took some of the berries and ate them. "I don't feel anything yet," she announced after a minute's solemn munching. "Oh, you probably won't for several hours anyway," he said lightly. Then he continued: "If we could devise a way, we might heat water and cook the mushrooms. Then, too, I've been thinking we might even catch a bird." "Neither sounds very simple." "Nothing in life is simple," he replied. "At home, in America, where we leave food-getting to the farmer, dress from a store, and go to heaven by way of a minister, things are fairly well arranged, but here we aren't even sure of salvation unless we mind the business of thinking." He continued after a pause. "Of course, I don't especially remember that I counted on heaven. It always seemed a bit distant in the face of living and working. Perhaps, however, you counted it as vital." "I was fairly occupied with more immediate things," she answered. "However, that is a different world from this. What we did then can't especially matter to us here. This is our place of business, so to speak, and social life doesn't factor." "I see." He accepted the snub thoughtfully. "But this business of ours will grow exceedingly irksome without talk. I doubt if we can find the means of escape an all-sufficient topic." "We haven't boiled our water yet," she said. "And the bird is still free to roam." He did not carry on his line of thought aloud. If she had known what was going on in his mind, she might have been angered. He was wondering just how much thinking she was capable of. Certain that she was beautiful, he had scarcely allowed that to occupy him. His experience had led him to estimate people almost wholly by their ability to be open-minded. In his struggle against blindness, he had concluded that open minds were rare indeed, and persons who limited his freedom of action or tended to baby him he had grown to dismiss with a shrug. Claire did not belong to that class. "She has shown remarkable willingness to let me go my own pace," he thought, "but is this due to her mind or to mere indifference?" He decided at last that the relationship would be tiresome for both of them, and that she was not especially eager to prevent it from being so. This conclusion led him to adopt a definite attitude toward her. She could do as she pleased; he, for his part, would treat her simply as an uninteresting person, a machine that furnished the eyes which he could use in his travel to liberty. He recalled how, when he had been displeased with convention, he had thought of life in the wild as the best possible means of liberty, and he laughed. Claire looked up. "What is there amusing just now?" "Myself, and you." "Why, pray, am I amusing?" Then she was sorry she had said it. "Because you are you." "And are you other than yourself?" she asked scornfully. "Not at all, but my own particular interests seem infinitely more important to me than there is any possibility of yours doing." "You mean to say that you are an egotist." "Frankly, I am," he agreed. "One is an egotist, I suppose, when he finds himself and his needs and whims essentially worth while. I'll admit I find mine so. Perhaps you feel the same about yours. One scarcely knows where egotism and vanity meet or end in a woman." He smiled, for he meant that to provoke, and it did. Claire's voice was edged when she replied. "A very penetrating remark. With men generally, vanity seems to be a widely extended cloak to spread over all things in a woman that they cannot dispose of in any other way. If I find you dull, or if I am not struck with your ability, or if you do not seem to me sufficiently fascinating, I am possessed of feminine vanity." "Precisely. And why not? If I choose to regard myself as all those things which you deny, why shouldn't I find the fault in you rather than in myself?" "Because it may be in you," suggested Claire. "It may, but that doesn't alter the case. I quite agree that you are right, but none the less you are at fault, because I, Lawrence, am the most important of all things to me." She did not answer. The conversation seemed to her useless. She saw no reason for arguing the matter, and she half suspected that he was simply teasing her. Besides, she could not but feel that to sit here in his coat and discuss egotism was a trifle ridiculous. He was merely trying to establish a friendship in talk which she did not care to encourage. That was her conclusion. As he rose to gather more sticks, he asked: "Do you happen to see a rock that flattens to an edge?" Told where he might find one, he brought it and struck it hard against their boulder. It did not break. "It may do," he said thoughtfully, and began to grind it against the side of the other rock. He worked steadily and long, and the result was a fairly good edge, which was nicked and toothed, but still an edge. He laid it down with a sigh of contentment. "My first tool," he commented. CHAPTER IV. MUTUAL DISLIKE. All day Lawrence worked, and when night came he had hollowed out a piece of log to a depth of some eighteen inches, leaving six inches of solid wood in the bottom. Both were very well pleased with the result. With the coming of darkness, he gathered more berries, and heated water in his log kettle. They were able to cook the mushrooms and to bind her ankle in moss soaked in hot water. The building of a shelter was discussed, but both decided to resume their journey on the following day, so they slept again in the heavy moss. In the morning, Claire was glad indeed of the hot water, for it warmed her, and her ankle felt much better. They decided to follow the little stream which would doubtless wind its way somehow around the present ridge back to the ocean. Accordingly, they kept down the ravine, which cut across the ridge in a southerly direction. For the whole of that day and the next they followed the stream, which grew to a small creek. At noon of the third day they dropped suddenly down a steep slope to find themselves at the juncture of their stream, with a river which flowed through a deep gorge out to the ocean. They determined to follow it up toward its head. "Somewhere inland must be a town," argued Claire. "At any rate, it's the only way we can go." After living for four days on berries, they were beginning to feel acutely the need of other food, but they discussed the problem at length without arriving at any feasible solution. Two days later fortune temporarily relieved their difficulty. They were following along the side of a steep ridge overlooking the river, when Claire suddenly stopped him and gave a cry of delight. Near them a small, furry animal, caught in a tangled mass of wirelike creepers, was struggling to free itself. He killed the creature with his stone-edged tool, and after barbecuing it on the end of a stick, they ate it ravenously. Each of them would have disliked the whole scene at any other time, but now neither thought anything of it until after they were satisfied. Leaning back against a rock, Lawrence stroked his chin, rapidly becoming invisible under a heavy beard. "I hadn't known I was so hungry for real food," he laughed. Brown as a gipsy, her hair filled with tiny green leaves, Claire looked at him, her eyes shining with the warm light of satisfied hunger. "We ate like two beasts," she remarked languidly, and laughed. "It was simply disgraceful." "I know," he began to muse, "it doesn't take long for the most polished man--not that I ever was that--to become a savage." "You look the part," she laughed. "I suppose I do, too. My hair is matted hopelessly; the curliness makes it worse. My face, too, is rapidly hardening under this sun. If only I had a few more clothes--" She stopped and looked at him. "I feel the need of them," she finished lamely. Claire had worn his coat continuously from the first night, and his undershirt was tearing from contact with bush and tree. He grinned contentedly, however. "If you approach nakedness as rapidly as I," he chuckled, "I fear we both will have to avoid civilization. Undisguised humanity isn't tolerated there." She flushed warmly, then laughed. "I wonder why people are so afraid of being seen," Lawrence went on. "Of course, there's the warmth and natural protection of clothing, but one would feel so much freer without the encumbrance of shirt-stud and feathered plume." "We need them to complete a personality," said Claire. "I know few people who would inspire respect in their elemental state. Stripped of advertising silk and diamond, they wouldn't be so suggestive of wealth." "But why be so eager to impress others with your power?" She turned toward him with a faint smile. "If you didn't ask that as mere conversation, I would think you childish. You know very well why. It probably goes back to the days when the possession of a fish-hook, more or less, meant surer life. It has come to mean, now, that the decoration of an extra feather or white flannel trousers means advantageous position, the place of more power, more pleasure; in short, greater fulness of living." "But we are living fully, goodness knows," he interrupted. "This last week we have had to exert our wits and bodies in more ways than we ever did before in all our lives. True, I do miss my modeling somewhat." He spoke the last with a soft mellowness in his voice and a wistfulness that made her look at him quickly. "Modeling?" she asked. He nodded slowly. "What sort of modeling?" she insisted. "Oh, probably poor, for the most part. I did some work that was beginning to make its way, though." "You mean sculpture?" He nodded again. She looked at him earnestly. Here was a new revelation. She had wondered at this man's apparent keen sense of form, and his imaginative power when he spoke of color or mentioned line, and she had been sure from his occasional word that he was a wide student of literature. "What did you do at home?" she asked abruptly. "Oh, played with living," he said indifferently. She felt irritated that he would not tell her more of his life, yet she remembered that she had practically refused to discuss her own with him. "See here, Lawrence," she said suddenly, "we aren't quite fair with each other, are we?" "Why not?" he answered quietly. "I carry you toward your old life, you guide me toward mine. It's a fair business, with equal investment. I'm not complaining." She was silent and watched him as he lay on his back, dreaming of days at home with his work. As he lay there, she studied his hands. They were practically healed, and she noticed they were well-shaped, the fingers long and tapering, yet with an appearance of unusual strength. She knew already that they were sensitive; when he had cut out a piece of wood to heat water in, she had seen that. So they were sculptor's hands. What a revelation, and what a pity that he was blind! She fell to wondering if he really was good at his work, or whether he merely fancied he was and hewed away without real artistry, deceived by his blindness. She studied his face in repose. Then her mind came back to his hands, and she felt a sudden sense of displeasure, a little chagrin, and some wonder, accompanied by the feeling that she wished he had not carried her. She did not quite know why, yet the dependence on him made her restless. Suddenly she wondered poignantly what he thought of her. The more she wondered, the more she wanted to know, and at last she ventured, "Are you asleep?" "No, dreaming." "Lawrence." "What is it?" He sat up and waited. "What do you think of me?" She was surprised to find herself waiting eagerly for his answer. He laughed outright, a gay, hearty laugh. "Claire," he said merrily, "you embarrass me dreadfully. You see, I haven't thought much about you. However, if you like, I'll study you for a week and report." Hot anger surged up in her. "You needn't bother," she said dryly. "Our lives are so utterly different in every phase that nothing could be gained." He lay back carelessly. "So I had decided," he replied, and lapsed into silence again. She could have cried with vexation. For the first time in her life Claire was utterly humiliated, and there grew within her an aggressive dislike for this man, a determination to make him feel her power and to punish him for his indifference. She did not want him to love her, by any means, but he had never even shown her the courteous deference, the admiration or regard that she was accustomed to receive from men. Her mind went back over the past week, and she grew more humiliated, more angry. Tears of vexation came to her eyes, but she brushed them away fiercely. "Shall we take the remains of our meat and move on toward the habitats of men?" said Lawrence, sitting up. She controlled herself to answer, "As you please." He stooped to lift her into his arms. She flushed warm as his hands slipped under her, and he straightened up. She hesitated, and wanted not to do it, but realized the necessity, and put her arm around his neck. "I shall be grateful when I can walk," was her comment. "It will make our progress more rapid," he agreed, and she was angry again. She knew that he thought only in terms of the most efficient means of getting ahead. A longing possessed her to make him realize that he was physically distasteful to her. "We are so vastly different," she said, "it is disagreeable to be carried this way." Lawrence flushed, and she was pleased. At least he understood now. "Of course," he admitted calmly, "it isn't pleasant, but I suppose one must make the best of a bad bargain." There was silence for a while, then he said suddenly, "I think I realize, Claire, that a blind man is at best a poor companion for a woman who is accustomed to being amused, and whose interests are those of the society glow-worm." Claire resented the picture, but she kept her voice steady. "Surely at home you had your own social group," she said pleasantly. "Of a sort, yes. We were all workers, not going in much for form, entertainment, and that sort of thing. We generally sat in the gallery at the opera, and did mostly as we pleased everywhere. None of us were rolling in wealth. We worked for the love of it, and looked to the future for pay." "I see." She was thinking fast. "You were struggling young artists." Her voice was sugar-coated. "We were struggling young artizans," he answered, seemingly indifferent to her irony. As he made slower progress when he talked, she did not attempt to carry on the conversation. The stops for rest were gradually lengthening out, and he was getting hard and wiry so that his endurance was greater. He was quicker at catching himself when he stumbled, and he did not puff so hard between grades. Claire felt the easier swing of his body when he walked, and noticed that he was growing surer of foot and more graceful in movement, and she realized that except for his eyes he was a splendid specimen of manhood. She now admitted all these things to herself, but they only added to her feeling against him. She wondered if he had been as indifferent to all women as he was to her, and was displeased that she wondered. Suddenly Lawrence stopped and put her down by his side. Claire looked up at him and saw his forehead gathering in a frown. "What is it?" she asked anxiously. "You are letting your thoughts obstruct your eyes," he said simply. "I have walked into three boulders without your knowing it." "I am sorry," she said earnestly. "It was silly of me." He laughed and sat down. "You see, as eyes you can't afford to think. At other times perhaps I, too, should wander into abstractions, but at present it won't work." "I know it," she admitted contritely. "I won't repeat it." "What," he asked, "is the subject of all this meditation?" She blushed, and her eyes darkened. She wondered whether she should tell the truth, started to do so, then changed her mind. "I was asking myself what my husband was probably doing and thinking." "Poor fellow!" Lawrence was sincerely thoughtful. "I can imagine what it must be to him, supposing you lost at sea. Yes, he must be suffering badly. I don't believe I would change places with him." Claire started at Lawrence. "Are you flattering me?" she asked coldly. "Not at all," he replied. "I am merely stating the truth. I have an imagination, my dear lady. I can quite grasp your husband's position. You would certainly be a loss to a man who loved you, and I shouldn't care to be that man." "Shouldn't you?" she said instinctively, and bit her lip for saying it. "Not under the circumstances," answered Lawrence. "I never did fancy the idea of death visiting my loved ones. I have never got over its having done so." "Oh"--her voice softened--"then you have lost your--" She waited. "I am an orphan," he said bruskly. She was ashamed of her relief. How ridiculous it was to have imagined him, even for an instant, as a married man! He was so cold, so impersonal; of course, he had never married, and never would. Well, that was best; a blind man had no right to marry. He owed it to himself and to any woman not to place her in the position of caring for him, handicapped as he was, and so unable to give her the companionship, the comradeship a woman deserved. She could see how he would treat a wife: feed her well, clothe her, care for her comfort, and talk to her if she desired, but he would never be tender, loving, sympathetic, or understanding. No, he could not be; he was too self-centered, too much the artist. That last seemed to her a correct estimate of him, and she settled her mind on it as being final. "So you are alone in the world?" Claire said, renewing the conversation. "Quite," answered Lawrence. "I am as free from family hindrances as a young wolf that runs his first season's hunt alone." She thought how apt a comparison he had made. "So you regard the family as a hindrance?" "Oh--no and yes. One can never do quite as he pleases while a family and its wishes, aims, and loves are concerned. They always hold him down to some extent. He is an equal hindrance to them. They love each other, and as a result they have to sacrifice their individual wishes. But the family keeps man more social, more gregarious, and less selfish. If we were as free from family love as is the wolf I mentioned, we would be able to live our lives more completely, and, on the other hand, we would die in greater numbers. The love of man and woman for each other and their children lifts humanity out of its serfdom, but it also places limitations. You ought to know more about that than I, however," he laughed. "I merely theorize." "So I noticed," Claire observed. "One can easily gather that you aren't experienced." "No. My parents died when I was small. I had to work my way through school. The accident made it somewhat harder, but I got along." He was plainly matter of fact. "Oh!" She exclaimed at his words more forcefully than she had intended. He smiled a little, comprehendingly. "Yes, it explains a lot, doesn't it?" He spoke carelessly. "You doubtless can now understand my lack of social grace." She thought to deny it, but that seemed foolish. He was silent, and there seemed little use in talking. Claire knew she understood him well enough. CHAPTER V. THE FACE OF DEATH. In the days that followed they talked but little. Lawrence had fallen into the habit of speaking only when she seemed to desire conversation, and his mind was occupied with planning their escape. If he thought of her in any other way than merely as his eyes, he never showed it. Though watchful of her comfort, in every act and word, he was markedly impersonal. Following the river, they had progressed steadily north and east over increasingly higher and rougher ground. The tropical vegetation of intertwining crimson was now changing to a faint gold. There were days when they were forced to make long détours over broken ridges to get around some deep gorge through which the gray-green stream dashed its foamy way downward. They were well into the mountains, and above them the higher Andes raised their snowy peaks in forbidding austerity. It was daily growing colder, and their clothes were now only ragged strips. Then came days when sharp, biting winds whipped through the cañon they followed, or headed against them on some plateau, and they were forced to face new issues. Food was less plentiful, and winter was at hand. To be sure they were in the tropics, but on the mountains the air was cold, and warmer clothes became imperative. Claire's ankle was almost well. After weeks of pain, which she had borne bravely, it was healing, and the time was near when she would be able to walk. Shoes were absolutely essential for her. Furthermore, Lawrence's own shoes were worn through, and his walking was becoming a continual pain. In spite of Claire's increasingly careful guidance, he stepped on small, sharp rocks that dug into his flesh. He did not complain, but Claire knew that he was suffering. The times when he stepped out freely became more and more seldom, and his face was usually taut. They were, indeed, a pitiable couple. Lawrence's thin face was shaggy with hair. Claire's once soft skin was now brown and hard. Both were thin and wiry, with the gaunt lines of the undernourished showing plainly. One morning, to fight the frost that bit into them, they were forced to build a fire long before dawn. As they sat huddled together over it, Lawrence finally broached the subject that had been engrossing both their minds for days. "Claire," he said thoughtfully, "we can't make it through. We'll have to find a place somewhere and prepare for winter. It's tough, but it's inevitable. I hate to give up now, but it will be even worse for us if we don't get meat, fur, and a house against the snow that will soon be covering everything." "I know," she said sadly, her thin hands supporting her chin. "It seems as though we had played our long farce to its end. Death is as inexorable in its demands as life." The circles under her eyes were great half-moons. "We have done well, though," he argued. "We've done better than well. Who would have believed that a blind man and a crippled woman could have come as far as this?" "I didn't believe it, Lawrence," she said, and her voice and eyes were full of a warmth that had grown of late to be fairly constant. "I didn't believe it, and I wouldn't believe it now if I were told the story back home." "I'm not sure; I might have," Lawrence said proudly. "I know the blind and their capabilities." "I'm learning to know them," she admitted, and lapsed into silence. "Shall we go into camp, then," he asked, as if they had not mentioned anything else. Claire hesitated, then said slowly: "It's our only chance. Are you willing to spend a winter with me?" Her eyes glanced amusedly at him. Catching the note in her voice, Lawrence laughed. "It seems inevitable," he said, "and, anyway, I couldn't ask for a better companion. You don't disturb me, and I don't irritate you--that is, not especially." She looked at him impatiently. "Don't you?" she said, meditatively. "Well, I'm glad I don't bother you." "Yes," he assented seriously. "You've been mighty open-minded, Claire, and you haven't hampered me with incredulities." "Oh, that is what you mean." He moved uneasily, his muscles drawing a little. Claire saw and wondered. "Yes," Lawrence said shortly. "When morning comes, we'll hunt for a location." They ceased speaking, each occupied with his own thoughts. Claire was asking herself what the winter would mean to her, spent with this silent man, and he was questioning how long she would continue to regard him as a mere imperfect carrier, devoid of the stuff that men are made of. Sometimes when her body was in his arms, he had wondered if she was capable of love, but always he had remembered her husband, her social life, her assumption of superior reserve, and had forced himself into a habitual attitude of indifference. The strain was telling on his will, however, and often he longed to make this woman see him as he was. He thought of the old days in his studio when he had proved himself master of blindness in his power to imagine and carry the sense of form into the carved stone. He recalled the praise of his comrades, and over all else there surged in him the swift, warm blood of the artist. "Lawrence," said Claire suddenly, "at what do you value human life?" "That depends," he answered, "on whose life it is." "Well, at what would you value mine?" she demanded. "From varying points of view, at varying prices. From your husband's point of view, it is invaluable. From your own, it is worth more than anything else. From my point of view, it is worth as much as my own, since without you mine ceases." "Then your care of me and all your trouble is merely because you value your own life." "What else?" He moved uneasily. She ignored that question. "If you could get through without me, would you do it?" "That depends on circumstances. If I could get through without you, and do it quickly, and could not get through with you"--he paused--"I should leave you behind." "And suppose, when I can walk, I do that myself?" He smiled. "As you please," he said quietly. "I advise you to make your estimate well, however. My hands and strength are assets which you might have trouble in doing without." "And do you estimate the whole of our relationship on a carefully itemized basis of material gain and loss?" "Claire, isn't that your understanding, stated by yourself, of our partnership?" "Yes, but--well, it's hard to estimate human companionship." "I know it." He shifted nearer the fire. "I've tried to estimate yours." "Indeed?" Her voice was full of interest. "I've failed. You are worth a great deal, potentially." "Exactly what do you mean?" "I mean just this"--he stood up suddenly and faced her, his shadow covering her like an ominous cloud--"that as Mrs. Claire Barkley you are worth nothing to me except eyes, and, therefore, your personality and conversation are of value only as time-fillers." "Go on," she said steadily. "But as Claire, the almost starved, ragged human being who is living with me through a prolonged war with death, you are worth everything to me--everything that I value." "But isn't that what I have been from the beginning?" she flashed. He answered slowly. "Yes--in a way." Once more they lapsed into silence. In turn she tried to estimate his worth to her, but failed. She began to recall the men she knew, and concluded that she was without a standard of measurement. One by one she pictured them and cast them aside, as somehow not the scale by which to evaluate this man. At last, she began to think of her husband. It had not occurred to her to think of him in comparison with Lawrence before, and it made her wonder at her doing so now. She fell to dreaming of the man who had been her lover in girlhood, and her husband and dear companion these past six years. He was surely at home, aching, yearning for the little girl he had lost. She could see him sitting before the fireplace in their big living-room, his head on his hands, his tired face in repose, while he gazed into the flames and longed and longed for her. The picture grew in clearness. She saw the joy that would be his when they met again, and she felt around her those dear arms, crushing her against him in a rapture of reunion. In sudden contrast, she was again conscious of the cold, impersonal arms of the man beside her. As she thought of the difference she hated Lawrence wildly. At least, her husband knew her worth. He knew her golden treasure-house of love; he knew her as she was. This blind man before her there, unkempt, hard, expressionless, what did he know of her? What could he know, born of poor people, and working his way among inferiors? She almost laughed aloud. Why, at home this man, who had carried her in his arms, would have been one of her wards, an object of her charities. But would he? Lawrence was an artist. She considered that. "Isn't it light enough to get moving, Claire?" His rich, warm tones broke in upon her thought like a shattering cataract. How musical and vibrant his voice was! "I think so." She stood up unsteadily. "Good. We'd better go down nearer the river. We will want a sheltered ravine for our winter camp." "Very well." She threw her arm over his shoulder. "It isn't far down, and it's clear going. When we start again, I'll be able to walk. And then I'll lead you, Mr. Lawrence." She spoke half in jest. "And if we are alive, I shall make it possible for you to do so comfortably. I hope for something to make shoes of." He answered with a frank, sincere joy at her being able to walk, and she was ashamed of her anger. He was not to blame for being anxious to have her well, to have felt otherwise would certainly have been to be a fool indeed. She should rejoice with him, for then they could get home that much sooner, home to her husband and her old life. She warmed at the idea, and felt a sense of gratitude toward Lawrence that was good and wholesome. "I have been silly," she thought. "He is really not to be expected to fall and adore me, and certainly I ought not to blame him for being blind. He couldn't help that, either." "Lawrence," she said aloud, "I am a beastly unjust wretch." "I don't see it," he protested. "But you ought to see it. I don't play fair with you." "You said that once before, I believe. I don't agree any more now that I did then." "But I think all sorts of beastly things." She could not understand her frankness. "Oh"--he paused. "So do I. But as I am not a Puritan, I scarcely hold myself responsible to you for my thoughts. One's thoughts are his own, and, as long as he keeps them to himself, he is entitled to as many as he pleases, of whatever variety he prefers." "Do you think so?" "Of course, and so do you." "Yes, I did--but it seemed to me," she faltered, "that in the present case--oh, well, let it go." She laughed nervously, and said no more. Lawrence wondered at her silence, and wanted to know very much what she thought, but he told himself that after all it was none of his business. They had reached the river. The water rushed from the mouth of a gorge in rapids that sent its every drop sparkling and flashing over a great rock into a mass of white foam below. "Oh," cried Claire, "it's beautiful, beautiful!" He put her down and laughed. "It sounds as if it were leaping from points of light into cloud-banked foam." She stared at him in amazement. "It is," she said in a subdued tone. "How did you know?" "One learns," he said carelessly. "And how about a camp?" Her admiration of him vanished into the commonplace. "We can't find it here," she said, hiding her appreciation of the scene under her professional-guide tone. He frowned. "Nowhere close?" "No. And what is worse, we'll have to go over a mountain. The stream here is rushing right out from between cliff walls." Lawrence's spirit sank, but he did not show it. "We'd better eat what little we have left and then be off," he suggested simply. That morning was the beginning of their hardest experience since they first left the beach. Scarcely had they started to climb over the great ridge, which broke into sheer precipice at the river, when a sharp wind rose and cut through their unprotected bodies. Claire drew in against him as close as she could, while he tried to give her more protection with his arms. The slope was steep and filled with loose rocks so that he lost ground at every step. They were forced to stop often, and by noon he was worn out, and they were both bitterly cold. Claire thought they were near the top, so Lawrence nerved himself to press on. Night found them standing on the crest of the ridge, in the face of a bitter wind; before them, across a small plateau, rose a still higher mountain around the northern side of which a ravine cut its jagged gash away from the river. Claire stared at the scene until her courage broke down. "We can never do it, Lawrence," she moaned, and her head sank wearily against his shoulder. Her cry was the aching moan of a heart-broken child. The proud, self-contained Claire was gone. It stirred Lawrence strangely, and for the first time a warm tenderness for her came over him. He drew her to him, and tried to comfort her. Her poor undernourished body shook with the sobs that despair and the cold wrung from her, and, though his own hands and body were blue, he tried to warm her. Had he seen the ground ahead of them, he, too, might have given up, but blindness was the barring wall of black which shut out even defeat. He clenched his teeth firmly, and lifted Claire in his arms again resolutely. "We've got to do it, Claire," he said, "and we will." She attempted to paint the scene before him in graphic detail, her words broken by sobs. When she finished he started forward. "We'll follow the gulf," he stated. "We must keep going, Claire. We don't dare to stop." "We can't. It's dark, and will be black soon," she answered. "We've got to do it," Lawrence repeated. "It isn't the first night of my life I've struggled against a black so dense its nothingness seemed overpowering." She strained her eyes through the gathering night to turn him into the smoothest way, lapsing into jerky, habitual words of guidance. In the darkness they entered the ravine and staggered down to its broken bottom. The time soon came when she could see hardly anything until they were almost upon it, and the white face of a boulder spotting the endless black before her filled her with a vague dread. Often they paused to rest, but the cold drove them on again. Claire almost ceased to direct him, and Lawrence gritted his teeth till they hurt him and forged ahead. Once he slipped and fell, but got to his feet again and went on. Claire was not injured beyond a few bruises, but she noticed that he limped more than before and her fear increased. How they ever fought that night through neither knew, but morning came at last and found them still staggering down the ravine. They were almost out of it now and were entering a rather heavy pine forest. Fortunately the gulf they followed had turned around the mountain in the direction of the river, and their desire for water drove them to keep on. To their blue and shaking bodies all feeling had grown vague, tingling, and uncertain. When Claire looked at Lawrence she could have screamed. His lips were drawn back, and his hairy cheeks and sightless eyes flashed before her the image of a dehumanized death mask. Her own face must look like that, she thought, and buried her head on his shoulder. Through that morning he struggled on, faltering, lurching, resting a little, girding himself against the death now so surely at hand. In his mind thought had ceased to be coherent; his starved body, whipped by the cold, was beginning to play with the imagery. He gurgled a grim little laugh, and all clear thought was at an end. Claire heard and looked at him wonderingly. She knew that she was freezing, and she had resigned herself, but this man, what was he doing? He still lunged through the trees, where, at all events it seemed a little warmer. She heard him muttering incoherent jargon that gradually cleared to speech. "We'll go on, Claire. We'll go on to the end. I've got to do it. I need my life. I need you!" She started and listened, though even in her present state she grew resentful. "So that was it," she thought; "he's waiting to get me out before he breaks into his love. He wants his rescue as an argument." Then her thinking was broken into detached images. She saw her husband and cried aloud to him. She had pictures flashing in her mind of him, of old scenes, parties, places they had been together, tenements she had visited in her charity work, the beach that morning when Lawrence had found her, and in and through it all she heard words falling from his lips that recalled later, stung her to wrath. "I need you, Claire," she heard him again, and then, "I shall use you, Claire. You will be my masterpiece. It is you, proud, superior, human, social, intellectual, sexed, vital, you, carrying in your being the whole tumultuous riot of the ages gone, and hiding it under a guarded social exterior, not knowing when in a sentence it breaks through, you, you, Claire, you, the woman!" He stumbled, regained his balance, and plunged through a fringe of pines, staggered against one, then another, cursed, and went again forward and out into a clearing. She saw it vaguely before them. At first she doubted, then, as he let his hold on her slip, she gripped his neck with arms that scarcely felt the body they closed around. "Lawrence," she screamed in a voice that was shrill--"Lawrence, a cabin, a cabin!" He sank down with her clinging to him still. "I know," he muttered, "I've got to find one." Then he lay quiet. She freed herself and crept toward the house. She was at the back of it, and she was obliged to crawl slowly on hands and knees around to the front. There was a door, she pushed on it, but it did not open. She grew angry at it, and beat against it with her fists, abusing it for its obstinacy. When at last it opened she laughed wildly. Before her, his tall body, clad in warm, heavy clothes, stood a man whose dark eyes grew wet with tears of pity the instant they saw her. He lifted her in his arms like a child and carried her inside. She had a fleeting sense of being at home, she thought he was her husband and threw her arms around him passionately, then, remembering Lawrence, she murmured as he laid her down, "Out there--behind the cabin!" and was unconscious. The man turned and hurried out. In a few minutes he came back, carrying Lawrence, and his face was lined with pity at the state of these two human beings. He laid them together on a wide berth at the side of the cabin and began to work over them alternately. Swiftly and deftly he heated blankets and prepared food. He wound them in the hot cloth, chafed their hands and arms, and forced brandy down their throats. Lawrence's eyelids drew back. "The man is blind," muttered the stranger in Spanish. Claire was looking at him dazedly and reaching greedily toward the kettle that simmered over a great open fireplace. He brought a bowl of hot savory soup and started feeding them. Lawrence swallowed mechanically, but he could hardly get the spoon out of Claire's mouth. "Not too much, _señora_," he said, turning away. When he looked again toward them they were both asleep. The utter exhaustion of their long night claimed rest. He walked over to Claire and stood looking down at her. "She was beautiful," he thought. "And he is blind. Ah, well, for her, beauty is again possible, but for him"--he shrugged his shoulders--"it is bad, bad!" he said softly, and, turning to a shelf of books that stood against the wall, he drew out a volume and sat down before the fire to read. CHAPTER VI. THE STONE THREAT. When Claire awoke she stared around her for a few minutes before the events of their frantic struggle came back to her. Her eyes strayed to the figure before the fireplace. Idly she noted the lustrous, wavy black hair and deep brown eyes protected by unusually heavy lashes. It was clearly the face of a thinker, a dreamer, yet there was something sensual about the mouth, potentially voluptuous, abandoned, and suggestive of tremendous passion that slumbered close beneath the brain that was so actively awake. Claire ached, and her body tingled with the unaccustomed warmth. She lay quiet, looking at the fire, her mind still uncertain in its action, weaving sharp, dynamic images about this new personality. While his appearance gripped and awed her strangely, at the same time she felt drawn to him. She turned and threw out her hand. Her host closed his book and looked up, smiling. "Ah, _la señora se siente mejor_?" His deep, rich voice, although lighter than Lawrence's, was full of music, but she did not understand his words. Her blank expression told him, and he smiled again. "I remember, you spoke English," he said with only the slightest accent. "Are you better, _madame_?" She answered his warm smile and said weakly: "Much better, thank you!" "And your husband?" Claire saw that he was looking beyond her, and she turned to find Lawrence at her side. Instinctively she resented his being there. The warm blood rushed to her face. "He--oh--he will be all right, I trust!" she stammered falteringly, and her host looked puzzled. Her impulse was to tell him that Lawrence was not her husband, but she thought better of it and said nothing about the relationship. "He had a long, desperate struggle to bring me here," she said instead. "You see, I broke my ankle and he had to carry me." "Oh!" The man rose, his face filled with respect as he looked at Lawrence asleep beside her. "From where did he carry you?" he asked. "From the coast," she shuddered. "It has been terrible!" His face expressed utter amazement as he repeated: "From the coast? It is a miracle!" She made no reply, for Lawrence stirred and tried to sit up. "You'd better lie still," the stranger said kindly. "You deserve rest, my friend." Then, as to himself, he added: "It is the first miracle in which I can believe." Claire stared at him, and he laughed softly. "Pardon, _madame_! I am an unhappy seeker after truth," he apologized, throwing a log on the fire. For Lawrence and Claire the days that followed were uneventful days of recovery from their hardship. Slowly both of them grew stronger and resumed their normal habits of thought and speech. Their host was a gentle nurse, kindly and considerate. Claire assumed her wonted attitude of the cultured woman, a guest in the house of a friend, and the Spaniard met her with the polished courtesy of a cosmopolitan. Lawrence, too, became the usual man that he was, careless of little niceties, indifferent to form, but a charming companion and a delightful guest. From the first he and Philip became intensely interested in each other. They discovered early that each was a thinker and a searcher in his own way for the one great solution of life. During the first half-hour Claire had demanded of their rescuer where they were and how soon they could get back to civilization. Philip had laughed gently. "You are on the borders of Bolivia," he told her, "and the nearest railroad is two hundred miles away. It is impossible to get out until spring. Long ere this snow will have barred the way through the one pass that leads out and we are prisoners--the three of us. You will have to accept the hospitality of Philip Ortez until the spring." Lawrence had accepted the verdict with calm indifference. "Oh, well," he said, "it's hard on you, but as far as I'm concerned, one place is as good as another." "I shall enjoy your company," their host laughed. After voicing polite thanks, Claire, in her own thought, had rebelled against the situation vehemently. She wanted to get home, she wanted to get away from everything that suggested her last weeks of suffering, she wanted to get away from these men. Her heart leaped to the ever-recurring dream of the husband, whose arms should take her up and hold her warmly against the memory of their separation. "Then there is no way out?" she asked again. "None, _madame_," and Philip Ortez bowed. "You will have to be the guest of a humble mountaineer." "I shall enjoy it, I am sure," she answered. "It is simply a woman's natural desire for home which leads me to ask again." His eyes clouded. Claire somehow found herself fancying a tragic mystery in the life of this man, and then rebuked herself for romancing. Certainly, such fancies were not her habit, and she wondered why they were occurring to her. The cabin stood on the very edge of the forest through which Lawrence had carried Claire the last morning of their long march. Protected by its pines, the little house fronted on a small lake, a place where the river which they had followed widened to a half-mile, and stayed thus with scarcely any current save directly through the center. All around the lake the forest stretched its massed green, and here Philip trapped. The lake, in its turn, provided him with fish. The week after their arrival snow had heaped itself into the ravine and piled up high around the cabin. Ice was beginning to form on the edge of the lake, and their host was preparing for his winter's work. They were too weak to go with him, and he left them in possession of the cabin. At first there had been an unaccountable awkwardness between Lawrence and Claire, and it had left a reserve which was difficult to overcome. Lawrence had explained their situation to Philip; the Spaniard had been apologetically gracious, but there was something in Claire's nature that made her wish that Lawrence had never been thought of as her husband. Dressed in Philip's clothes, and in the presence of a roof and fire, she felt a desire to be free from the memory of the days when she had clung about Lawrence's neck, and, above all, she felt that she was not able to meet him with understanding. His blindness in these surroundings seemed to set a sudden and impassable barrier between them, and made her ill at ease when she was alone with him. Lawrence was irritated that she should so immediately react into what he called the old conventional habit toward blind people, and keep it standing like a stupid but solid wall between all their talk. Now that she was no longer dependent on him, she appeared to him more attractive. He thought of her husband, and wondered if Claire's attitude toward himself was tempered with the thought of the man at home. "Surely," he told himself, "she can't be allowing that to come between us, for it is so obviously quite unnecessary." Then he began to wonder how much of her life was centered about her husband. What sort of man was he, and did she love him devotedly? As he thought, there crept into his feeling a sense of irritation against the unknown man who was obstructing his friendship with the woman he had carried half through the Andes Mountains. Then the longing for his work came over him, and there were times when he felt he must do something. He spoke needlessly sharp words to Claire. Though she concealed her anger, there grew between them a continuous straining born out of mutual misunderstanding and a great submerged tangle of emotions. One morning when Ortez in snow-shoes and fur had gone for the day to look after his traps, Claire washed up the tin dishes they used, and sat down before the fire opposite Lawrence. His head was in his hands and his face was somber. "You look sad this morning," she said casually. "Do I?" he answered. "I'm not--especially. I was just planning a piece of work, dreaming it out in outline." She looked at him thoughtfully. His forehead was high and broad, she thought, and his hands-- Their days in the wilderness rushed back over her. She was angry at the memories they brought her, and doubly angry at Lawrence, as if he only were responsible. "It's inconceivable," she said calmly, "that you, without seeing, can really carve anything true to form and line." In her voice was incredulity and unbelief. He rose suddenly, his face white, and said, with an intensity that startled her: "That sentiment is as familiar to me as my name. I have heard it from sight-bigoted people from the days when I made my first attempt to go back to my school work. I am rather weary of it." She sat staring at him for a moment, then she laughed. She could not have told why she did it, and she was instantly sorry. The blood rushed to his face. "I shall create that which will forever assure you that I can carve true to the most familiar form and line you know," he said fiercely. Her face was as crimson as his now, though she felt ice cold. "What do you mean?" she demanded, her voice unsteady. He laughed bitterly. In his own heart a fierce volcanic surge was raging which he did not attempt to control. "Do you think that I, trained as I am to gather fact from touch, could carry you through weeks of hell in my arms, against my breast, and not know you, you as you are, Claire Barkley? I shall carve you, you with your cold reserve suppressing the emotional chaos within you, and you will not fail to recognize yourself." Claire gripped the chair arms. Anger, fear, doubt, then the knowledge that he could do as he said, swept over her in rapidly succeeding waves, and gathered at last into a steel hate that she felt must last through eternity. "You, you would do that, after I guided you here! You would take advantage of what I could not help, and--and--" she choked, and then said swiftly--"so, under your indifferent exterior you used your touch that way these days! Oh, you--you beast!" Lawrence laughed coolly. "I could no more help it than I can avoid being here." "Lies!" she exclaimed. "A gentleman could help it!" "Perhaps, but not an artist." "And what of beauty, of your boasted purity of art, is there in that?" "All," he said calmly. "If you knew, oh, if I could make you see what every artist knows"--he was talking passionately now, his face illumined in spite of his blind eyes--"you would realize, that I could not help it, that I glory in it, and that it was and is the way of art." He rose and walked the floor, pouring out his creed in a stream of burning words. "I am a machine, a sensitive thing that registers what it feels and knows, that is all. You touch me, my brain registers that touch, and something in me, the will to live, the desire to create, the insistent shout for expression says, 'Take that and carve it in stone.' If I could see, if I were not blind, I would have been a painter. I would have painted you, almost naked as you were, your eyes filled with the hunger for life, your face tense with racing thoughts, I would have painted you fully, all of you, as you were in night-gown and skirt there in that forest, and you would have shouted to all the world from my canvas, 'Look at me, I am the primitive, the wild, the passionate, the tender, the selfish and unselfish living woman. See me as I am, cultured, refined, educated, elemental withal, and the emblem of humanity as it is, still stained with the traditional mud of superstition and blood that marks its origin. Oh, I would have painted you so, and now I shall carve you so!" He stopped, and Claire looked at him wildly, her eyes aflame with hate and admiration. "You would use another human being that way?" she gasped. "I would use any one, I would, I will, at any cost to them, to me, if the outcome be a piece of art, a work that in its truth, its immortal beauty, shall stand a lasting testimony that I, Lawrence Gordon, have mastered blindness and registered life correctly." A great light swept over her mind; that was the key to him. He would sacrifice himself to conquer blindness--but would he, she wondered, and instantly her thought found expression. "Would you crush yourself to create that mastery of blindness?" He laughed. "I have, I am doing it," he said. "I would go through all the torment of the world if I might create something lasting, true, and beautiful." Claire leaned forward, her lips apart, her eyes bright. That she hated this man she was sure, yet all her woman's soul was awed by what she now saw behind his mask of blindness. Then a new thought came to her. "Might it not be," she asked subtly, "if you hold suffering to be the key to beauty that you would profit more at last by denying the impulse to create the thing you are planning?" He laughed again. "I hold that pain is only the spur to progress. I care nothing for the sentimentalism you are talking now. I carried you through the wilderness, I suffered and bore it, I staggered through nights and days with your warm body against mine that I might live, and now--now I know the value of life, I understand as never before the pain our fathers paid. I know the bitter animal war against environment, evolution whipped into action by pain, hunger, fear of death, and I shall carve that, all that, into the statue of one woman." "And what of me, me and you as such, Claire and Lawrence, who were there through that struggle in the wilderness?" The speech leaped from somewhere in her being before she knew it, and with it came knowledge that stung her into tearful self-hate. "We shall go back to our old lives, I suppose, and live them out." It was what she had expected him to say, yet the calm matter-of-fact statement hurt her as nothing he had ever said before. Lawrence dropped into the arm-chair again, and rested his head on his hand. He was calmer now, and, reviewing in his mind what he had said, he was beginning to ask himself why had he given way to this sudden resentment against Claire. If she doubted him because he was blind, was that any more than others had done? He had never burst out against them. What was the matter with him? He surveyed the whole trend of his life up to this minute: how he had broken at late adolescence from a glowing idealist to a wanderer through varying paths of thought; always stirred, stimulated, and swept on by contact with other people, books he had read, women for whom he had occasional fancies of love, until gradually he settled into his assured manner. It was exercise he needed, that and work. He asked himself if he seriously loved Claire, and answered unequivocally that he did not. He wanted her friendship very much, indeed, but love, not at all. If she had been single, perhaps--but no, he did not care about her that way, that was all. He had been too long shut up here in the cabin with her and without work. He must get some wood and amuse himself carving things with Ortez's knife; it would be good practise, and, at the same time, relieve his nerves. He was sorry he had let himself go; Claire must not be hurt. "Claire," he said quietly, "if I wounded you, if I said things I ought not, pardon me! I am getting nervous doing nothing, and I am not myself these days." She laughed calmly. "Oh, very well!" she said. "I wonder that we don't come to blows, cooped up here as we are. I think next time Philip makes his rounds I'll go with him." "It would be a good thing," answered Lawrence. "I'd like it myself." Claire did not keep up the talk. She, too, was thinking fast, and facing new problems that demanded her attention. She was surprised to find that her resentment toward Lawrence was completely gone. What would her husband think of him? What would he do when she returned, when she told him of her journey with this blind man through weeks and weeks of wilderness when they were almost naked. She stopped, that was what Lawrence had said, 'almost naked.' Her flesh tingled as she saw the picture which he said he would like to paint of her. What would she, Claire Barkley, do if such a picture were painted? She buried her face deep in her hands, but in her heart she knew that she would respect the man who painted it. And if Lawrence carved her so in stone, and did it as he thought he could--she pondered over that for some time. "I think," she said aloud, and Lawrence raised his head, "that if I were to stay shut up here alone as Philip does, I should go crazy before spring." "It all depends on how your mind is occupied," he laughed. She blushed guiltily, and was glad he could not see her face. TO BE CONTINUED NEXT WEEK. Don't forget this magazine is issued weekly, and that you will get the continuation of this story without waiting a month. WHAT LIBERTY BONDS MEAN PATRIOTISM, VICTORY, THE SOUNDEST INVESTMENT IN THE WORLD, A PERFECT MEANS OF SAVING BUY ALL YOU CAN Claire by Leslie Burton Blades THE BLIND LOVE OF A BLIND HERO _BY A BLIND AUTHOR_ This story began in the All-Story Weekly for October 5. CHAPTER VII. PLAYING WITH FIRE. In the late afternoon, Philip returned to find Lawrence still sitting before the fire, his mind centered on ideas for his future work. Claire had disappeared behind the canvas curtain which was stretched before her bed. "It is almost Christmas," announced Philip, as he entered. Lawrence straightened up. "Back again?" he said, carelessly. "It's been a beastly day." Claire came out from her partition, laughing. "If you don't take one of us with you next time," she said, "I won't answer for the tragedy that may follow." Philip laughed, and shook the snow from his big coat. "Too much of your own continuous company?" he asked. "Yes"--her tone was light, but he saw that she was in earnest--"we are so accustomed to each other that we both need a rest." She drew up a chair for Philip before the fire. His dark eyes looked searchingly at her. "If you knew the path to peace," he said, "you would be happier. I see that I must take you out with me and teach you the hidden entrance to that mystic roadway." "You know one, then?" Lawrence's voice was amusedly skeptical. "It lies through the heart of man into the heart of"--Philip paused--"shall I say God?" "You may as well, though it isn't especially clear." Lawrence smiled. "God is a big, but vague, term." "I find it so," Philip answered, seriously. "There are days, however, and this was one of them, when I am sure of the meaning of that term. Claire must go forth with me and see." "Yes, do let me go," she said, eagerly. Then, with a little laugh: "If your mystery out there is as discomforting as the Lawrence mystery in here, I sha'n't worship him, however." "He isn't." Philip arose and crossed to his books. "He is the mighty God who speaks in solitude." He drew down a volume, and returned to his chair. "I find here in these mountains the medicine that _Hamlet_ should have had. He would have been no _Hamlet_ had he ranged this plateau for a day in winter." "And the world would be the loser," Lawrence interposed. Claire rose and started to prepare their evening meal. She had taken over the duties of housekeeping from the time her ankle had allowed her to walk. "If you two are going to plunge the house into an argument such as that one promises to be," she said gaily, "I am going to reenforce the inner man so that at least you won't suffer from physical exhaustion." Both men laughed, and one of them listened to her thoughtfully as she moved about, while the other watched her, his dark eyes full of a keen appreciation of her grace and her concise, accurate movements. "How good it is to have her here," thought Philip. Aloud, he said, seriously: "I do not think the world gains enough from _Hamlet_ to make it worth the price he paid." "Why not?" Lawrence was quick to respond. "Whatever his agony, whatever his failures and his death, he left the world a picture of man's heroic struggles to solve the riddle of the universe, his wisdom, his strength--and his weakness." "But that is just what we don't want--the picture of man's weakness. It is made all the worse when it is presented with the power of a sublime work." Claire turned from the stove, and looked at Philip. His eyes were burning with a deep, earnest fire that held her fascinated. She thought him the most beautiful of all the men she knew. It was not his face, not his appearance generally, but his eyes. Oh, the loss of such eyes! she thought--yes, they are what makes him a finer man than Lawrence. Why hasn't Lawrence such eyes? "Believe me, friend," Philip was speaking again, "if I could erase from my knowledge the weakness of man, I would not need to trail my feet through these snow-buried forests to find an hour's rest from life." Claire saw his fingers move nervously on the arms of his chair, and thought: "That is it, then; I was right; he has his tragedy." She looked at him again, and as she met his eyes she felt that she was sorrier for him than she had ever been for Lawrence. Yes, she was sorrier for this man whose soul burned out of his eyes than for that other whose soul was always curtained by the expressionless mask that hid him. "I can't quite agree with you," Lawrence was saying; "I, too, know the weakness of man, but there is, nevertheless, the glory of sublime beauty which alone stands, immortal. I should indeed mourn for man if he were unable to be truly immortal even in his created work. That, it seems to me, saves him." "Or loses him," Philip added. "One golden life of unbroken sunshine, dead at last and laid away in the memory of friends is worth more than your greatest poem." "I should call that sentimentality," Lawrence laughed. "So it is," Philip flashed, "and why not? Must we kill sentiment and go about with hearts of ice because our world is hard?" "Is there no way to keep ourselves warm without poultices?" retorted Lawrence. Claire sat down at the table. "Come on and enjoy your venison, you two, and have done with the ills of the universe." The two men joined her. It was a strange trio: Claire, a dashing boy in Philip's made-over corduroys; Lawrence wearing his host's summer serge as though it were his own, and Philip looking at them, amusedly. "I never quite recover from the charm of you in male attire," Ortez remarked, looking into her face. "I've tried at times since our fortunate misfortune to imagine her in evening gowns and furs," said Lawrence; "but I always fail and end by getting her into some sort of barbaric costume belonging to the distant past." "You are both flattering and both foolish," she told them. "It's my business to look well in clothes, you know, and it's masculine to admit my efficiency in a particularly feminine line." "You were scarcely fascinatingly efficient in the garb in which you first appeared to me." Philip laughed at the recollection. "That isn't fair. I would have been if I had had enough to eat." She looked at him, and her eyes sparkled gaily. "I surrender," he said. "You would have been. Too fascinating!" "That also depends on circumstances," said Lawrence. "She wouldn't be fascinatingly efficient in that back-to-nature garb if she were doing charity work at home or if she were taking a trip in an airplane." "You carry your point," she agreed. "I shouldn't care to try." "Which leads me," Lawrence went on, "to observe that our friend, Shakespeare, was, after all, right in bequeathing _Hamlet_ to us. He might not look well in our own castle, but as a portrait viewed in our neighbor's house, or in a house unspecified, he is the high point of subjective tragedy." Ortez did not answer for a moment, then he said, quietly: "I had rather lose my winter's work than lost _Hamlet_ from my memory, yet when I think of what there is in life for a man, did he not have _Hamlet's_ doubt to face, I think perhaps we would all be better off for no knowledge of that subjective war. Man has too much to do to lift himself out of the still clinging primordial slough to dally with subjectiveness. We should be acting, aggressive, strident in the strength of the war we wage toward freedom." "Of course," agreed Lawrence, "but that requires only one thing, the master passion to do, because for us, doing is life. I cannot regret _Hamlet's_ hesitating failure. It was his life. To every man there is but one way, his way, and whether it be failure or success does not depend upon an avenged wrong, a successful marriage, or even a great work done for humanity. The test is, is his life worth the price he pays to live it? I imagine _Hamlet's_ was." "Fallacies!" interrupted Claire. "Why, then, the tragedy?" "Because _Hamlet_ did not know that the governing laws to which he strove to hold himself were not laws, not true, not necessary." "You mean," Ortez inquired, "that he was not bound to avenge his father and punish his mother?" "I mean just that. Why should he? She was satisfied, his father was dead, and _Hamlet_ gained nothing by his moral strutting and raving against his own hesitating hand." "But you have swept aside all moral law," protested Philip. "What moral law is there that is external to me? What, indeed, is moral law?" "That which makes for life, perhaps, as some one has said," offered Claire. "For my life, yes. That which to me means life, is good. That which to me means less life, is bad." "Yet you carried Claire through the mountains," Philip's voice was hard. "Because I needed her, because she was essential to my life." "Then you would have left her, had she been a hindrance?" "That depends," answered Lawrence slowly. "Had she made my life uncertain when otherwise I might have lived, I think I would. Of course, if her being there merely increased my trouble, I should have brought her." Claire was watching Philip's face. It was a study. On it there was something that made her heart beat faster, she found herself unable to tell why. She glanced at Lawrence. There he sat, his strong, stern face, calm and soulless. She wondered why blindness robbed this man of his rightful appearance. He had a soul, and it was a wild, beauty-loving soul, she knew, but blindness quite mantled it. On the other hand, Philip's was a mighty fire within, which shone in beauty through his eyes. Lawrence had quietly spoken of how he would have left her under other circumstances. Philip would have died at her side, she knew it. What a difference between them! "But if you feel as you declare, why take that extra trouble to save her?" Philip asked. "Because I have a certain dislike of death and don't care to cause it myself if I can help it." Claire laughed. "But death, you said once, is a mere stopping of animal action. Why dread that?" "Because I myself do not care to die, I would not care to cause your death." Philip rose and went to the fire. "I do not believe you could live by your theory," he asserted. "I do live by it. There is but one thing I dread worse than death. I would die rather than give up my creative impulse." "And he would sacrifice your life or mine for art's sake," merrily added Claire. "It's a good thing he doesn't think we are hindrances to art." Philip also laughed. "Well," he said, "there might come a time when I, too, would want a thing enough to kill in order to obtain it." "What, for example?" asked Lawrence. "That is the best way to determine your value of life." Philip did not answer for a few minutes, then his voice vibrated. "The things that mean more than life to me. I know that one holds his own life dear, but there are things, love, courage, honor, for example, that he holds even above life." "Would you kill me, for instance," asked Lawrence pleasantly, "if I stood between you and Claire?" "That is scarcely answerable," nervously interposed Claire. "You see, you don't and the man who does--though it's all absurd, since we none of us here are the least in love--is my husband." "I had almost forgotten him," said Lawrence, his voice lingering softly on the word "almost." Philip laughed. "Why, yes, in the abstract, I should say that if anything would make me kill you, it would be your standing between me and the woman I loved. Of course, the case is fair, but scarcely probable enough to make any of us worry." "True"--Lawrence joined him at the fire--"and by the way, while I think of it, I want a knife and a block of soft wood. I'm going to entertain myself these days." Quickly Claire looked up. "And you shall entertain me, Philip," she said gaily. CHAPTER VIII. THE TIGHTENING NET. Christmas was upon them. They gathered before the big fireplace in silent meditation, while outside the wind whipped sheeted snow against the walls and wailed dismally its endless journeying. They could not help but feel the something melancholy in the air. The little cabin, standing so far away from civilization and all the things they were accustomed to know seemed somehow to set them apart from the rest of the world and leave them stranded as it were, upon a barren stretch of thought. In keeping with the setting, solemn questions of destiny, death, and the meaning of things took the place of the usual Christmas festival and glitter. In Lawrence's mind, Claire was growing more and more predominant. He found her constant association weaving itself into his life until, when he looked ahead toward the day when they must part, he discovered himself asking what he could find that would take her place. Her voice, her little habits of speech, the unexpected question that showed her deep interest in him, in his work, and in his attitude toward her, these had gradually stirred in him the desire to establish in his own mind a definite relation toward her which he could maintain. When Claire went out for a while with Philip, Lawrence spent the interim in trying to reason out his problem. He told himself that he would feel differently in his old environment with friends and work, but the answer was not satisfactory. He knew that even there, he would miss the quick sound of movement, the quick phrase that was Claire. Did he love her then? He asked himself that, and could not answer. What was love to him, anyway? He sought to think out a scheme of love that would fit into his system of utter selfishness, and failed. The memory of her in his arms came to him now with a warm, emotional coloring that had been absent during the days of their journey. Had he been so impersonal then at first? He remembered his first wild joy at finding her there in the surf, and he admitted that even then there had been a subtle heightening of his pleasure, because it was a woman. Since his blindness he had been separated from the other sex even more than from his own, and now he was to live with one daily, having her alone to talk to, to watch, to be interested in, and to know--yes, that had been a part of his feeling that morning. He remembered that he had been slightly irritated at her when he had first decided that she was cold and intellectual. He had wanted her to be warm, colorful, vivid, and feminine. He had found later that she was all these things, but not toward him. It was a man whom he had never known, her husband, Howard Barkley, for whom she was wholly woman. Always when she spoke of him her voice had warmed, grown softer, subtly shaded with color. Claire opened the cabin door. "Hello, Mr. Dreamer! Still in the land of to-morrow?" she called, taking off her heavy wraps. "Where's Philip?" Lawrence demanded gruffly, without moving. "Working over a trap in the ravine. I was a little tired, so I didn't wait." Lawrence could hear her brushing her hair. He was glad she had returned without Philip. Now at least they would have a few minutes alone. "Snow bad?" he asked. If he could only have run his hands through that curly mass! The memory of her hair brushing against his face made his temples throb dully. "Yes, my hair is filled with it. I caught my cap on a branch, and the whole load of snow came down on top of me." "How old are you, Claire?" he demanded suddenly. She laughed. "Guess! Don't you know it isn't good form to ask a lady her age?" "Sometimes you are quite thirty, and other times--" "Well, go on." Claire was standing at the opposite side of the fireplace with her back to the flame. "Other times, you are two," Lawrence continued calmly. "I thought that was coming. Well, just to prove what a really nice person I am, I'll tell you. I'm twenty-six." "When were you married, Claire?" Her breath tightened at his question. "Curiosity is a wonderful thing, and the impudence of man passeth all understanding. I have been married exactly six years, three months, and twenty-four days." The last sentence brought the catch into her voice that Lawrence had expected. "I know you miss your husband," he forced himself to say formally. "Yes, you see"--Claire hesitated--"ours wasn't like some marriages one hears about. Howard and I were both very much in love." She realized too late the past tense. Had Lawrence noticed it? "I miss him dreadfully," she added desperately. Lawrence said nothing. He had noticed Claire's slip, and the verb had sent him into a thousand realized dreams. The next instant he was cursing himself for a fool. "Fools, all of us," he thought. "Philip, too, warming himself with dreams of Claire." Before the nearness of the Spaniard's personality, Howard Barkley faded into the background. Lawrence reviewed his own position moodily. Blind, unable to do the work that Philip did, certainly unable to use the million little ways of courtesy-building as Philip did, his chances were unequal. Did he want Claire for Claire, or was it only the fighting instinct, the desire to overcome men not handicapped as he was? Would he still want Claire after he had won her? After the intimacies of home life had made her familiar as nothing else could, and had dispelled all romance, all the alluring appeal that sprang from the deepest sex-prompted desire yet unattained, would he still want her? That was the question, and he could not say. The experience alone could tell him--and would that experience ever come? Claire watched Lawrence's face, the while her own thoughts raced on. It had been love she felt for her husband. She was sure of that. Of course, in the years of their life together, the old, wild passion had gradually retired into its normal proportion, leaving them free to go about calmly and untroubled. But it was there, as she well knew in the hours when they became lovers again. Certainly those hours had been joyous, happy ones, unclouded by any suspicion of mere gratification of impulse or desire. Yes, they had been hours of love claiming its rightful expression over the more constant hours of daily living. Then she recalled her experience of the night before. She had been dreaming of her husband, but he possessed Lawrence's features, illumined with the glow of Philip's eyes, and she had started into full wakefulness with a sudden sense of her position. Now she sat before the fire, and resolved grimly that no matter what happened she would be faithful to Howard. Of course, she would go with Philip to look after his traps, the exercise was the best antidote to such morbid thoughts, and he would never make advances to her, of that she was sure. As for the days that she might spend alone with Lawrence, he was too self-centered, too much wrapped up in his wood-carving, to think of a woman--and she disregarded the little pang of discontent that accompanied her thought. Philip was hanging the skins over the door. Claire realized that she had been too engrossed to notice his entrance. "I break a six weeks' fast to-day"--and he turned toward Lawrence. "Do you smoke?" "Man!" said Lawrence, springing up, "if I'd known you had tobacco in store I'd have murdered you long ago to get it. I would be a more agreeable companion if I could taste tobacco now and then." "Pardon me for not thinking to ask you. I was declaring a six months' course in self-discipline for the good of my soul." "Bring forth the smoke," said Lawrence joyously. "Unfortunately"--Philip turned to Claire--"a bachelor's storehouse contains no treat for a lady. Your visit was unexpected." "I shall gain my pleasure through watching you two sink back into a beloved vice," she answered. "Horrible!" Lawrence sat down, and took the cigarette which Philip produced. "To enjoy seeing one succumb to vice." "Isn't it characteristic of scandal-loving humanity?" she rejoined. "And on Christmas Day!" Philip chided her lightly. Then he went on, seriously: "But one should really be above all things save love and gratitude to God on this day." "I suppose so," said Lawrence, "but it's difficult to determine just where this object of gratitude abides and what He is." "Is it necessary to locate Him?" asked Claire. Lawrence breathed deeply with the satisfaction in his cigarette. "I should hate to direct my gratitude toward some one who missed it, and thus have it lost in desert space," he answered. "It isn't that we need God so much as it is simply the good we gain ourselves," said Philip slowly. "I still follow the old trail for my own heart's sake." "And does it get you anywhere?" Lawrence's question was characteristic. "Yes, I think so. I find myself nearer to the source of that which is worth while." "What is worth while?" Claire asked. The answers she obtained were the two men revealed. "The fullest life possible for me," said Lawrence. "The fullest heart possible for me," followed Philip. "But you both mean the same thing, don't you?" asked Claire. "I mean the fullest number of my own desires gratified," Lawrence avowed. Philip leaned back in his chair and looked at Claire, meditatively. "If he did as he says, we should have to lock him up," he observed. They all laughed. "Not at all." Lawrence was amiably argumentative. "To be sure, if my desires were gratified at your expense, as this smoke, for example"--he laughed--"and on an all-inclusive scale, you might have to resort to personal violence. But, in fact, many of my desires would bring you joy in their gratification, you know." "I do know," said Philip cordially, "but the danger in your point of view is that it allows for no check. You would sacrifice both of us if it were necessary to gratify your desires--that is, if you lived true to your assertion." "Perhaps I would. I don't know. There is the weak point in my whole scheme. I evade it by failing to sacrifice you, but I support my theory by saying there is no occasion to do so." "I don't like your principles," Philip rejoined, "though I admit that my own fail me more often than not." "Exactly. We humans do fail, and the conclusion to which it brings me is, why hold principles that you find unworkable? I prefer a standard to which I can at least be true, in the main, and avoid self-condemnation, pricks of conscience, and other little inconveniences." "Such as a sense of duty?" interrupted Claire. "That above all, Claire," he laughed. "And obligation?" "Yes, that too, if you mean a sense of being bound to one because of something he has done in the past. For instance, I am obliged to Philip for his food, his house, my life, and this cigarette, but I scarcely feel that that would imply that I must sacrifice my greatest desire in life as payment if necessary. Of course, it isn't necessary, but if it were, I should refuse." "I think you would not," asserted Philip. "I know I would. I rather believe you would also, though it might be that you would not." "I would sacrifice anything to pay a debt of gratitude." Philip spoke warmly. "You would--perhaps--but in so doing would you not feel that gratitude was the thing of supreme worth to yourself?" "Not necessarily. I might even suffer all my life for having done so." "Impossible. You would either redeem your sense of life's value by a new belief, or you would die." "Then you think a man can do as he pleases and maintain his self-respect, his personal integrity?" "He will find some way to make himself feel worth while, or he will cease to be." "You think that a criminal, or perhaps better, a person abandoned to vice, feels justified?" "Yes. He creates a belief by which his abandonment is not destructive to himself, or he is converted, which is simply a convulsion of nature for the same end, to preserve his life and make it seem valuable to him." "Could you, for instance, murder a man, and do it believing that afterward you would somehow make it seem right, or at least so necessary that you would feel as self-respecting and sin-free as before?" Philip was speaking earnestly. "I should not do so unless I were forced to it, but if I were, I know that I would somehow reconstruct my mental life so that I would still feel existence worth the price." Claire leaned forward. "Lawrence," she said jestingly, "you have swept away the bulwark of the home, made infidelity easy, and numberless separated families inevitable with your bold, bad talk. Aren't you sorry for all those tragedies?" He laughed. "Very," he said, "though it was watching such proceedings take place so frequently that led me to accept my theory. Think of the men and women who are unfaithful, who leave their wedded partner for another, and still find life worth while." "But that is their failure to live true to their principles," said Philip. "It is commonly called sin, my friend." "It may be, according to their light, but they generally get a new light afterward. You see, I do not believe that God joins men and women. I am persuaded that a very natural physical desire does so, and it doesn't follow that the first is the only or best union." "My husband would simply dread me if I held your view, and I should feel very wary if I were your wife, Lawrence," remarked Claire. That was the central point in the whole discussion, though none of them were aware of it. Vaguely they felt that they were groping their way toward the future, but they did not allow the feeling to reach a conscious state, and Philip laughingly broke up the talk. "Here we are," he said, yawning, "the fire is making us all sleepy, we're talking foolishness, and we need exercise. Why not get it? I think we might all of us go out and face the wind for a quarter of an hour, then let it blow us back to camp like three children. I have the skis for us all." "Great!" Claire clapped her hands in applause. "It's a splendid idea," agreed Lawrence, and they set forth. It was hard going against the wind; Philip was the only one who managed his skis very satisfactorily, and Lawrence, of course, had to be assisted, but the crust was smooth and clear, and they made great sport of it. The two men placed Claire between them and crossed hands in front of her, like skaters. The fresh snow-filled air blew into their lungs, and they laughed like boys on a holiday. Claire glanced at the two and thought: "What a pair to be between!" Then laughed again. All the morbidity was gone, she was not thinking follies now, and neither of them was more than a good friend. Philip was thinking that Claire was good to see as she moved along between them, her graceful stroke carrying her over the snow, her cheeks stung red in the wind. Lawrence was not thinking at all. He was simply moving, deeply enjoying the wind and the exercise and the soft, strong little hand upon his own, helping to guide him through his darkness. When they turned and stood close together, the wind caught them like a sail and sent them skimming before it. The sense of tobogganing was keenly exhilarating. Home, problems, worries, the future, all seemed very simply, very easy, and not at all a matter for long conversations before a hot fire. CHAPTER IX. CLAIRE'S ABASEMENT. The following days and even weeks passed quickly, carried on the wave of light-hearted play which Philip had so wisely started that Christmas night. February came with clear sun that set the snow glittering like a field of crystal under the dark pines, and they laughed with exuberance of spirit as they swept over it on their skis. Even Lawrence became an adept as long as he had one of their guiding hands to hold. All speculation was gone for the time being. Lawrence and Claire gave themselves up to a frank comradeship, in which Philip formed a splendid third, so that they seemed a trio of happy, healthy animals whose lives flowed without a break in the mere pleasure of living. But one morning early in the month, Philip said after breakfast, over his coffee and cigarette, "I'm going for the day to my farthest traps across the river. Claire, would you care to go? We'll get back late this evening." "I would," she said promptly. "I'll be ready in a few minutes." Lawrence did not say anything, but to his sudden surprise he felt his heart sink. An insistent inner voice was saying, "I wish she wouldn't go." He heard her, back of the curtain, dressing for the trip, and his little petulant thought grew into gloom at the prospect of her being away. He felt irritated at Philip for suggesting that she go. "You'll have to leave me a good spread, Claire," he said finally when she emerged into the room. "I'll fix you up a great meal," she laughed. "You can eat all day, if you like." In her voice there was an unusual warmth, for at his words she felt suddenly as though she were thoughtless of him in going. For a minute she pondered giving up the trip, then concluded that to do so would seem ridiculous, and set about preparing his lunch. Philip rose and, putting on his heavy coat, said carelessly, "You can carve us a new wooden image, Lawrence." The words were casual and without intention, but they angered. Lawrence felt as though both of them were trying to make amends to him for their going, as though, being blind, he must of course stay at home, but ought to have something to occupy his time. His resentment grew stronger as he continued to think of their supposed condescension. When the lunches were ready Claire and Philip started. At the door she paused and said gaily: "Keep the house warm for our returning, Lawrence." He was sullenly angry and made no reply. The frank way in which she spoke of herself and Philip somehow recalled to his mind other couples, married lovers starting out somewhere, and his heart tightened perceptibly. After they were gone he sat thinking for a long time, and his impulsive feeling clarified into certainty. Claire and Philip were in love. Perhaps they did not know it yet themselves, and had not spoken, perhaps they had; at any rate, they were in love. It had grown between them in his very presence, and he, doubly blind fool, had not known. If he could have seen, it would have been clear to him, of course. He thought of Claire's husband, and grew virtuously angry at Claire. Howard Barkley would mourn his days out, never knowing that his beloved wife was living in Bolivia with a Spanish trapper! He saw Claire going about the cabin as Philip's wife and doing for love the things she now did out of a desire to be of use, and his rage grew. Was it not for love that she did them now? But she was just as thoughtful of him as she was of Philip. "Of course, idiot," he muttered, "she pities you; you poor, abandoned, blind man, you are to be cared for, don't you see?" He strove to shake himself into a different mood by self-ridicule. Was this the philosopher who made life a matter of calm acceptance of circumstances which he knew to be his master? He laughed at himself, but the laugh was bitter, and he knew that he was not willing to accept this particular turn of circumstances. But what right had he to judge what she did? She was not his wife nor the woman who would be his wife. She could never be his wife. There was her husband. No, it was not her husband that counted, but Philip! Suddenly Lawrence realized the point that he had reached. He loved Claire Barkley. The admission of that at last in frank, utter avowal set him dreaming of the joys she might have been to him. He thought of a thousand little intimacies, cares, thoughtfulnesses, that she might have given him and received from him, and they were all made vital, real, by the now ardent memory of her in his arms, of the hands he had held in his own so often of late in the open. In the afternoon he grew disgusted with himself. He had moped all day in his chair, moving only to replenish the fire or get a cigarette, and he now shook himself vigorously free from his thoughts. "You love her, yes, and she obviously does not love you," he told himself. "Why, then, make the best of it, if you can't do better, and at least don't be a beast in your treatment of your host when he comes back to his own hearth." With that he dragged out a block of wood, took his knife, and went to work. As was his way, he was soon unconscious of everything but the piece of wood beneath his hand. He had never done wood-carving before, and he was learning the technique that made it very different from clay. He had gone at this piece without any special intent and was shaping it into a cherub merely out of whim, but he was giving to the task every atom of his skill, and his hands worked with every nerve strained to detect and keep line and proportion. Swiftly under his knife the child's body grew in shape, and he caressed the rough form tenderly. He would polish it later, and then what pleasure it would represent! It would make a great decoration for the cabin--for her cabin. He winced--yes, for hers and Philip's cabin. "Fool!" he ejaculated. "Forget it!" He bent again to his work, but it did not go so smoothly. Out there she and Philip would be laughing merrily together, skimming over the snow in long, sweeping strides, hand in hand. Would they think of him? Probably not, or if they did it would be to say, "Poor Lawrence! It's a pity he's blind. He has real talent." He gritted his teeth. Well, he had real talent, and they should know it. She should know it. He would show her such carving as she had never thought possible. After all, was her love to him, Lawrence the artist, the capable, blindness-conquering artist? "I am reconstructing my life," he thought, "so that I can still find it valuable without the woman I want." He again laughed bitterly and said to himself, "You poor, blind, groveling beast, you, what a poor excuse for life you have, and what a tawdry substitute you would offer Claire for the vast joy that is hers! Oh, it is contemptible!" He bent over his work again, and the door opened. Claire came across the room and leaned over him, her body radiating a cool, healthy perfume as she laid her hand on his shoulder. "Oh, what a splendid piece of work, Lawrence!" Her voice was joyous, triumphant, and his heart beat desperately against his chest. "They've declared their love," he thought, and then he said simply, his voice vibrant with the emotion he did not otherwise show, "It's been beastly lonesome to-day, Claire." She laughed gaily, while her eyes clouded. Then she noticed the untouched food on the table. "Why, Lawrence, didn't you like the lunch I fixed for you?" "It was bully, Claire," he answered quickly, "but I wasn't very hungry to-day--I don't know why." The emotional coloring in his voice set her whole being atremble. She had come in, radiant with the day's pleasure, and he had met her with his need. He had been too blue even to eat. She was suddenly seized with pity for him, as she thought of his long day alone. But more than that, over and over in her heart she kept saying, with a joy she could not conceal from herself, "He loves me! He loves me!" Philip came in and bent over them both to look at the wooden child. "_Caramba!_ it is a marvelous thing!" he exclaimed. The unconscious use of the Spanish word showed the genuineness of his admiration. Claire laughed joyously. She was glad that Philip knew the power of this blind man who loved her, and a vague feeling came over her that she was now somehow safe from Philip. Instantly she wondered at her feeling the need of safety from him. Glancing back over Lawrence's head, she met Ortez's eyes and read in their look a tenderness that he did not know was there. Her heart leaped unsteadily, and her lashes dropped. She was saying to herself, "How wonderful he is!" Then she turned and almost ran behind the curtain that walled her room. On the edge of her bed she sat, her face in her hands, hot tears burning her eyes, while over and over the blood rushed into her cheeks and out again. "Claire! Claire! What sort of a woman are you?" she moaned. Her heart beat irregularly under the surge of emotion that shook her. She was glad, glad that Lawrence loved her. She had looked into the eyes of Philip Ortez, and her own had dropped, while her mind had leaped into admiration of him, warm, yielding admiration. What was it that had swept her on the discovery of one man's love to a deep, vibrant gladness--that another man's eyes had been filled with tenderness for her? Was she so changed from the Claire of old? Was she utterly degraded? Did she want both men to love her? Did she love either of them? What of her husband? She sank down on the bed and wept silently. They were talking out there in the cabin. She heard Lawrence say laughingly: "One gets accustomed to hearing your voices around, and to hearing Claire do things, so that a day alone seems endless." "Hearing Claire do things"--that was it--and suppose he knew what she was, would he want to hear her then? "Oh, I know," Philip was answering. "It gets to be a sort of necessity, doesn't it, when we have so many associations and memories all among ourselves? I shall find the place dreary next winter, I am afraid, when you are back among your friends, and Claire"--he paused slightly--"will be going about as ever, doing things for her husband somewhere up there in the States." Would her husband ever imagine or discover what she was? If he did, he would leave her. She remembered a girl in the slums at home who had refused to be uplifted. "Aw, one fellow ain't enough. A plain ham is all right for some, but I want a club-sandwich." She shuddered now at the memory of the girl's words, and shrank together on her bed. Was she another of that sort, abnormal, degenerate, whose life must find its level at last in the sordid riot of promiscuity, disguising itself as love? If Claire had never touched the bed-rock of self-abasement before, she was doing it now, there in that cabin. She heard Ortez starting to get supper, and she sat up quickly. With stern control she forced herself to seem composed and quiet, while within her passions raged like a tornado. Self-contempt, wonder, amazement, pity for her husband, for Lawrence, and hatred for Philip Ortez swept round and round in her brain like a maelstrom. She stepped through her curtain and said gaily: "You're preempting my privilege, Philip." He laughed. "I thought perhaps you were tired," he said. "She ought to be," remarked Lawrence from his chair, and in her present state she imagined in his voice a tenderness, a worry for her, and a distrust of her. She took up the kettle, and hung it on its hook in the fireplace. "I never in my life imagined myself cooking over an open fire in this way," she said as she turned toward the little storeroom adjoining. "You like it?" Philip asked carelessly. She felt sure that his eyes had read her heart and that he was looking toward the future, his future with the wanton mistress he had found. She could have screamed, "I hate you! I hate you!" but she said only, "It's great fun for a while; I wouldn't fancy it as a permanent thing." "It surely must be different from the conveniences of your home." "Rather," she laughed as she began cutting from the smoked meat that hung in the storeroom. Now it was Lawrence who was speaking. "I guess she'd surprise us if we could supply her with a chafing-dish. I'd like to see her at work over one in my studio with the bunch around waiting hungrily for results." Would these men never stop saying things that made her want to scream? What was the matter, that all at once the beauty of her day should be smashed into a discolored memory of self-hatred? Was there nothing in all the world but sordid thoughts of oneself and of men who, causing them, said things to make them worse? After they had eaten she went to bed as soon as possible, leaving the men to smoke before the fire. She had pleaded weariness, and they had laughingly told her to get to sleep. They were out there now, talking in subdued tones so as not to disturb her--as if their voices did not ring through her suffering mind like clarions of evil! What should they say if she should suddenly spring before them and shout out her mad fancies? For a moment she had the wildest of impulses to laugh aloud, then suddenly she turned on her face as she recalled the emotion that had swept her when she saw Philip looking at her over Lawrence's head. Sleep finally stopped her tears. The two men went to bed, and there was silence in the cabin. Lawrence was smiling, as he felt Philip's body there beside him in the darkness. "I could kill you now," he was thinking ironically, "and end all question of your loving Claire." Philip, too, was awake. He had seen the hot flush that came into Claire's face that evening, and he knew that she had been troubled during the supper. He wondered if she were ill. Then suddenly he asked himself, "Is she in love with one of us?" He immediately tried to dismiss the thought as unworthy of her. She was not the kind of woman to forget her marriage vows. But what a home she could make for the man she loved! If he had only known her in time! But there was still friendship--yes, surely she could give that. Complete understanding and perfect sympathy would be the basis of a lasting attachment. "Who knows?" he pondered. "It may be that fate has sent her to me to teach me what a great self-denying love can be. In Claire I may find my dream-star again." CHAPTER X. HOW SIMPLE THE SOLUTION! When Claire awoke the next morning her whole being seemed gathered into a tense strain that made her feel as though the least thing might snap the taut nerves in her body and leave her broken and stranded on some far, emotional shoal. Her heart beat unevenly, while her lips and hands felt dry and hot, as if she had spent hours in a desert wind. She did not experience the bitter anguish of the night before; such storms are too wild to last, but it had left her deadly heavy within, and she was unable to recover her usual calm. One great determination dominated her, to prevent these men, at any cost, from knowing her real feelings. It was a determination born out of the sheer force that was carrying her on, a struggle that came from the very strength of the tide she sought to resist. She had been awakened by a sudden and clear image, the result of her unsettled mind. Her husband was beside her, leaning over the bed and looking down at her with a great love and a greater pity shining in his eyes. She thought that she had thrown up her arms to close about him with the frantic joy of a rescued person, only to have them meet in empty air and fall listless at her sides again. Beyond the curtain she heard Philip saying cheerfully: "It is a great day outside, one of Claire's days for play." "Good!" Lawrence answered. "We'll go out, then, and play." A rush of self-pity, anger against her situation, fear of she knew not what, and a gnawing desire to escape blended in her thoughts, while her heart warmed at the sound of Lawrence's words. "Oh," she thought, "I can never, never stand this day!" She got out of bed and began to dress, her nervous hands fumbling at the buttons on her clothes. Her eyes, deeper and shadowed in dark rings, stared vacantly at the white canvas before her. Lawrence was talking again, and she listened. Presently he started across the room and bumped into a chair. The incident was one which had become long familiar to her, and ordinarily she would have thought nothing of it, but this morning she flushed with sudden anger that a chair should have been left in his way. Then she realized that she was foolish, stepped through the curtain, and said before she thought: "Lawrence, I do wish that you'd look where you are going!" He laughed merrily. "So do I," he rejoined. "For some years failure to do so has kept me with at least one skinned shin. But just think of the cost of stockings had I been blind as a boy!" Suddenly she had a vivid picture of him as a ragged, little fellow, stumbling about through his unfathomable darkness, bumping into things and leaving jagged holes in his child's black stockings. Whether she wanted to laugh or cry she did not know, but a great, warm surge of motherliness came over her for the child she imaged, and she said aloud, "Poor little urchin!" Philip turned and looked at her, smiling. "It would have been a picture indeed," he said. "I had enough troubles during my rebellious childhood at the orphanage without adding imaginary woes," Lawrence went on, amusedly retrospective. "I remember one day when I was at the awkward stage. I was all dressed for church and happened to stumble over another boy lying in the grass. I fell against a bench, my trousers caught on a projecting nail, and ripped dreadfully. The matron gave me a scolding and sent me to bed for the day." "Brought up in an orphanage!" thought Claire. "No wonder he is pessimistic." "I didn't mind missing church," Lawrence continued; "but it struck me as a piece of gross injustice that I should be punished for a boy's lack of muscular coordination. I've experienced the same fate over my blindness. It seems to be a special trick people have, and they play it incessantly. I should think it would get as tiresome to them by and by as it did to me some years ago." Claire felt as if she were included in his casual criticism of mankind, and wondered just how she had been addicted to the practise. A dozen different instances came to her, and she felt very penitent. "It's because we're all so thoughtless," she said. "Perhaps. I rather choose to state it differently. It's for the same reason that I do thousands of things, because I'm more interested in myself than I am in any one else. I'm selfish, and so is the rest of humanity." "But we aren't deliberately so," Philip protested. "Isn't it rather that we are short-sighted and unimaginative?" "It may be. The end is the same. If I am too short-sighted, too unimaginative to know how a fellow being feels, I can do nothing but blunder along. He may be hurt by me. I may do him an injustice, I may even cheat him of his chance at life, but it can't be helped, and again the result amounts to my being selfish." As she worked over her biscuit dough, Claire listened to their talk resentfully. She wished they would keep still, but she said nothing. They went ahead, demonstrating, she thought bitterly, the truth of Lawrence's argument. "I suppose mankind generally does the best it can," Philip said thoughtfully. "If you ask a man, if you really talk with him, you will find him kindly, inclined to be generous, and willing to do what he can for another. I have always found that true." "So have I, in a way. He is kindly, he is inclined to be generous, and he is willing to do what he can for another. The trouble is, he makes a maudlin sentiment of his kindliness, a self-flattering charity of his generous inclinations, and is unable to do what he can for another because he is quite sincerely persuaded that he can't do anything." "My friend, I have had men help me when it cost them trouble to do it. We all have. Without it, we would none of us accomplish anything of value." "I, too, have had them help me, from the lending of money down to guiding me across a traffic-blurred street, but I have never yet found more than three or four whose imagination was keen enough and whose judgment clear enough to give me a square deal at living." "What do you mean?" "I mean that the same man who will help me across the street, lend me money, and be a splendid comrade, stops short when he comes to the field of self-support. He will say sympathetically, 'I don't see how you can do it,' or 'I admire your grit, old man, and I'd like to see you do it,' and then begin scheming around to direct my interests, aspirations, and efforts into some other channel from where I want them, as though, out of his own great wisdom, he knew much better than I what a blind man could do. If you want to learn just how small the imagination of mankind is and how obstructive to progress is their fool good-heartedness, go among them as a capable mind with a physical handicap. You'll size them up, yourself included, as the most blindly wall-butting set of blundering organisms that ever felt their way through an endlessly obstructed universe." "Breakfast!" Claire broke in with an unwonted sharpness in her tone. "And do let the biscuits stop the argument." They laughed and sat down to a silent meal. When it was ended, and the men took their cigarettes to the fireplace, she said: "I wish you would both do me a favor to-day." "We will! Name it!" They spoke at the same time. She turned toward them with an earnestness which she had scarcely meant to betray. "Go out, both of you, and leave me here alone a while." Lawrence was silent. Her words and her tone sent a sharp pain through him, and he wondered if she were ill. He wanted to say something to her, started to do so, checked himself, and laughed embarrassedly. Philip stared at her. He noticed the pale face and the dark rings under her eyes. "Why, certainly," he said, and rose. "You aren't looking well, Claire. Is anything seriously wrong?" He looked at her again with the same unconsciously tender warmth in his eyes. She saw it, flushed angrily, wanted to scream at him, and said simply, "No, I just want to think, and want it quiet. You two talk too much about yourselves and about things that you don't understand." "Very true"--Lawrence also had risen--"if I did understand them, I'd show humanity how to stop being animals and be men." "While as it is," she said nervously, "you allow them to blunder along and help the good work out by making plenty of trouble for them by your own blind shortness of vision." He stood, wondering at her. How had he unintentionally hurt her, and what exactly did she mean? Philip laughed heartily. "A just judgment on him for his sorry view of the world," he commented, opening the door. "We'll tramp back into the hills," he said to Lawrence when they were both outside, "and see what there is of deficient imagination in them." "There isn't," Lawrence said quietly; "they and the ocean are testimonials to the real potential power of an otherwise very faulty artist." Left alone, Claire worked furiously at setting the house to rights. Her nervous state led her to throw herself into the work with an energy that kept her from thinking. She sought for things to do with the desperation of a person whose only escape from the furies that followed him is utter physical exhaustion. When the cabin had been arranged and rearranged until there was no possible excuse for further effort, she took her heavy man's coat from its place and stepped out upon the snow-covered plateau before the house. Along its edges the lake shone milk-white in the sun, while farther out the ice glinted a clear, watery blue that made a gleaming jewel set in the sparkling snow around it. She stood gazing across the ice to the forest beyond. Its still beauty crept over her, and she breathed deeply of the cold, crisp air. Her head ached dully, and her chest felt tight as though trying to expand beyond its limit to make room for the trouble that filled her being. After standing motionless for a few moments, she started briskly across the snow toward the far side of the lake. She walked carefully over the ice and into the trees beyond. In her mind was one thought, to escape--but escape from what? From herself, she answered, and then suddenly, with a panicky bursting of the tension, she thought that is done only through death. She stopped and let the word "death" fill her mind, as a word sometimes does, growing and growing until its increasing weight oppresses the brain with a sense of physical pressure. "Death"--is it an escape? She tried to imagine herself dead, and failed. She could find no adequate image to express oblivion, and she gave up trying, while she began to wonder if she actually were immortal, and if she were, what would she say to herself beyond the edge of life? She thought of herself as standing, naked of soul, unbodied, in some far etherealized atmosphere, and she shuddered. "I would still be Claire, loving these two men and fearing a third." Tears crept down her cheeks. No, she did not want to be immortal and have no escape from herself. If she would only be able to endure the months still remaining before she got home, then everything would be settled. But would it? Did she want Lawrence to go out of her life, did she want to lose him? She could have him still as a friend, her home open to him always, her husband as glad to welcome him as she herself--yes, that would be best. She was walking again now, rapidly, thinking as she moved, and it all seemed very clear to her. She would tell her husband how Lawrence had suffered, how brave he had been, and how he had carried her on and on, when death seemed inevitable. Howard would owe Lawrence a tremendous debt of gratitude, and would make existence easier for him. Lawrence had had a hard life, his bitter attitude showed that he deserved a less obstructed road, and she would give it to him. In their home all three would talk, laugh, and be, oh, so happy, while Lawrence could work better with his studio near her, perhaps in her own house where care could be taken of him. He would create great art there, and his bitterness would end. She would show him that her husband was understanding and imaginative. Again she stopped suddenly. But Lawrence--would he accept? He was so independent, so doggedly determined to fight his life out while his very battling made him ironical and darkly pessimistic. She tried to imagine him agreeing to her plan, and instead she heard him say, "I'm sorry, Claire, but I can't do it. I've got to go it alone and win or go under. I can't accept the charity you offer me in place of love. Gratitude, I know, prompts you, but you owe me nothing, you paid your debt by being eyes for me. No, if we can't be lovers, we can't be anything else. I know my limitations." Why had she put in that about "lovers"? He had never said anything to lead her to think he would say that. She answered herself that it was because she would want him to say it. And if he did say it, what would she answer? She would say--no, she couldn't do that--she would want to say, "Then let us be lovers!" But that was impossible. In her own husband's home! And what would she think of Philip when she was again in her old world? He, also, was deserving of gratitude. She stamped her foot in the snow. She hated him, hated him, and he would drop out of her life, utterly and forever. She would be glad when she saw the last of him with his seductive eyes. Those eyes--why did he, and not Lawrence, have them? They should have been Lawrence's. It was one more instance of the endless ironic humor of the universe. Lawrence--Lawrence and her husband! She turned wearily back toward the cabin. It was nearly noon when she reached home again, and Lawrence, a worried look on his face, was standing in the door of the cabin. "You beat me back," Claire said, as she approached, and her heart leaped at the look of relief that came into his face. "Claire, you ought to be punished," he said in gay, tender tones. "What sentence would you pass, Mr. Judge?" she questioned. He stepped out toward her. "Perhaps your fate needs a good washing in cold snow," he laughed. "Perhaps it does," she said, caressingly. "Do you think you could administer it?" "I know I could." He stooped and took up a handful of snow. She did the same and said gaily, "Two washed faces seem inevitable." Lawrence laughed and caught her around the waist. Her blood tingled, and her throat hurt as if she would choke. She began to struggle desperately, frightened at her own emotion. He laughed, and held her tighter with one arm while he tried to reach her face with the other hand. She was pressed against him, and they swayed back and forth, while Philip laughed from the doorway. Her heart was beating trip-hammer blows against her breast, she gasped for breath, and her eyes closed. His hand reached her face, and she ducked against his shoulder. "Lawrence! Lawrence!" she sobbed. Her voice startled him. Its pleading, yielding intensity sent his own blood racing. He let her go, and stepped back quickly while his breath came short. "Pardon me, Claire," he muttered, and turned away. Claire saw Philip watching them, in his eyes a strange, new glitter. She rushed past him to the cabin and into her little room. It was a silent dinner they ate that day. Claire was deeply, bitterly humiliated, and she kept seeing again and again with exaggerated clearness that look in Philip's eyes when she had staggered free from Lawrence's arms. It burned in her mind like an unquenchable coal, and she revolted at it. She was utterly unable to collect her thoughts. She fancied she could still feel the warm pressure of Lawrence's body while she suffered untold agony of soul for having been carried away by his touch. She reproached herself with a scorn that seared for having ever allowed herself to engage in that silly scuffle. She could scarcely bear to sit at the table with Philip, and she did not once look in his direction. In her heart there was no anger against Lawrence, only a dull, aching dread, tempered with a longing she did not attempt to analyze. Dominating her thought was the one phrase, "Why need Philip have seen?" That look in his eyes--oh, God! would she have to go on day after day facing those eyes that compelled her in spite of herself? Must she feel his glances burning through her when her soul was filled with hatred for him? But was it hatred? Surely his eyes, those lights that made her marvel, were the windows to a high and noble soul. Yes, he was fine, yet she wished he was not there, that she had never known him. She asked herself if she would rather have perished, and she knew she would not. Better to have lived forever with Philip's eyes piercing into her than to give up life when Lawrence was with her, needing her, and--she stopped--loving her, yes, loving her. It was true. She remembered his voice when he had released her, and thrilled again at the tense note. He did love her! And Philip? She felt her heart sink, and then a strange, subtle warmth came over her. It was good to be loved by two men so powerful, so worth while, each in his own way. Of course, she could never care for Philip. He was beyond her power to love; besides her heart was filled with Lawrence. But her husband, yes, she had loved her husband. Her many days of happiness with him proved that. She could never have lived with him as she had if love had not been between them. She must remember that, and be true to him. It would be hard to see Lawrence go out of her life, but it was her duty, she owed it to herself, to her husband, and to society. If she could only get through the remaining months without allowing Lawrence to hope! She must not give him another opportunity to want her or to discuss his feelings with her. She would be very, very careful. She must plan it as easily for him as possible. The way to accomplish that was not to be with him. This would necessitate her associating more with Philip. After all, why shouldn't she? He was good and strong, and not really in love with her. Of course, he might be, if she allowed it, but she would stop that. She would show him by word, look, and act that any such love was inconceivable. He would understand and forget his earlier feeling, for after all he was not yet alive to the situation. It was merely circumstances that had brought that look into his eyes. Disliking him as she did, it would be hard to associate with him. She studied this last problem carefully, and at last arrived at a new state of mind. She did not dislike him, it was merely the natural unconscious trend of male and female that she hated. He was not to blame, neither was she, and they were, fortunately, beings with mind and will. They could use their God-given power to talk it out and face the situation. Then Philip's natural nobility would make the solution easy. They would be on a splendid footing of frank understanding; their foresight would have saved them from a ridiculous and criminal mistake. In these mountains she would have found two real friends and a higher ground of life. After the first painful talk with Philip they would go out from the cabin, warm comrades, with nothing to regret. CHAPTER XI. THE MAKING OF A KNIGHT ERRANT. Silently, Lawrence rose and went to his work-chair. The zeal with which he began to cut his wood showed more clearly than any of them quite knew, the turbulent state of his mind. He was carried far into speculative possibilities that shook him with their power. He was absolutely in love with Claire, that was undoubted. He knew it, and he was determined to tell her so. To continue living in this uncertainty, with the memory of her pressed against him always compelling him to put out his arms and draw her again to himself, was intolerable. He would speak, and settle it once for all, nor would he take any compromising negative as a reply. That tone she had used could indicate but one thing, she loved him, and whether she knew it or not, whether she wanted to know it or not, should not matter. He would argue it out with her, showing her with the inexorable logic back of their whole experience how she was his, his in spite of her husband, in spite of blindness, in spite of everything. Without her, life was useless, barren, and dead. He must have her! He carved viciously but accurately, while his mind and body yearned toward the hour when she would be in his arms, yielding, abandoned, loving. Claire watched him from her place at the table in calmness of mind that, following her day of tumult, she could not understand. Peace, the peace that comes when one thinks he has settled something forever, was hers. "Philip," she said, "our artist has buried himself in his work. Shall we go forth on a chance adventure?" Lawrence choked back a whirl of jealous suspicion that swept to his lips, and said from his corner, "Do! I'll have a surprise for your return." He wanted to say, "No, stay here, Claire. I wish to tell you something, to make you see that I love you, that this Philip is not for you, that he is outside our real lives," but his tongue refused to obey his will. "It sounds inviting," said Philip, rising. "Suppose we do." They were gone. Lawrence worked savagely, his mind grasping at impossible thoughts which kept struggling for expression. He was afraid, afraid till it chilled him, lest, after all, she loved Philip. If her voice had sounded so intense that noon, it had been because she resented his holding her while her real lover looked on. Meanwhile Claire and Philip tramped through the pines in silence. She was wondering why she had come. She hesitated before speaking to him as she had determined. Perhaps he would be hurt at her imagining he could think of making any advances to a married woman, he would feel that she had suspected and accused him of a thing of which he was incapable. Speech was difficult, so she trudged along, feeling very uncomfortable. Her heart ached as she saw again the lonely look on Lawrence's face bending over his work back there in the cabin. "The adventure is slow in coming," Philip said, genially. "Perhaps we don't know how to find it," she answered, not heeding her words especially. "To find adventure, one must be awake to possibilities." "True," he mused, looking at her. "So much depends on a man's experience, knowledge, and imagination." "I suppose life itself may set us, even calmly walking here, in the heart of an adventure." "I have no doubt it does," he said. Claire looked at him in faint alarm. "Why," she stammered, "I didn't imagine it was true when I spoke." "To him who has faith, the wildest dreams are always possibilities." "Do you believe that, Philip?" "I have found it to be quite true. I often dreamed of good company here in my wilderness and a charming woman about my cabin. It has happened." "But even that has its very strong drawbacks, hasn't it?" "What, for example?" He looked at her, earnestly. "Oh," she hesitated, laughed, and said, "the rapidly depleted food supply, your time for thought broken, and all the rest." "One sometimes finds a relief from thought very agreeable." She wanted to laugh at the force with which his words struck her. "I'm sure that depends on the thought, as Lawrence would say," she answered, smiling. "It does. And there is nothing I would not give to escape from my present thoughts." His voice was pitched low. Her heart failed her, but she said bravely, "Perhaps you need a confessor, Sir Philip." "I do, a gracious one, who can listen well." "Then a woman would never serve," Claire laughed. "She would want to talk, you know." Philip stopped, and looked at her. As far as he could see, she was calm, indifferent, the lady making talk. "Perhaps," he said, lightly. "They have that reputation, I know." "Now, I"--she laughed--"I, also, need a confessor." "You?" His look searched her, incredulously. "What in the name of all the saints have you to confess?" "Oh! Many things. Misunderstandings, social follies, mistakes in character reading, mean thoughts, lots of things." "Absurd!" His tone was amused. "Who of us is not a sinner in those things?" "But suppose," she ventured, hesitant--"suppose I had misjudged you? Suppose I had suspected you of things you were not at all guilty of?" "I should be sorry if you told me of them." It was impossible, she thought, to go on. He would indeed be sorry, and how foolish she had been! But what had he meant a moment before? "Is your confession worse?" she asked. "I think so. A man is so apt to be a mad fool," he said, and lapsed into silence. They walked some distance before either spoke. Then Claire laughed suddenly. "Philip," she said, "we all three need a change of scene." He turned, and his face was crimson as he looked at her. "It will be here soon. We can go out in April." He had answered her dully, with a heavy sadness in his voice. It was her golden opportunity; and she took it. "Splendid!" she cried--"splendid! I so want to get back to my husband. I am scarcely able to wait at all." "I suppose," he said, "it seems a long time that you have been separated." "Oh, so long," she answered, softly. "And I do so want him." He walked on, slowly. "I shall miss you very much." Her manner and expression were those of a pleased, frank child when she answered. "Really, I was so afraid I had been stupid company, and I owe so much to you. My husband will want to come clear back here to thank you for your winter's hospitality." "It would hardly be worth his while. The debt is more than paid." "I shall be sorry--in a way," she went on. "We have become such good friends, such good comrades with not the least bit of unpleasantness to remember. I shall always be glad of that." "Yes," he said. "I am glad, indeed, that you feel so." "If any one had ever told me that I should find so rare a gentleman here"--she laughed--"I would have thought they were talking medieval gallantry." "Thank you. A gentleman is always himself when a lady is a lady." Claire flushed a little, and said nothing. "I shall remember you with pleasure and regret," continued Philip, his head high. Her eyes opened wide, like a child's. "Oh, with regret, too?" "Yes. Regret that you did not come to my cabin sooner, freer, and to stay longer." "You are a consummate flatterer, Philip," she chided. "I suppose it seems artificial; one can scarcely imagine that I should be in earnest," he said, a little bitterly. Her conscience hurt her, though she did not know why. She could have said those things before and thought nothing of them. Why did she feel sorry now? "I didn't mean that," she said, earnestly. "Believe me, I did not." "No," he replied, "you answered out of mere indifference." "But I am not indifferent to you, Philip. I like you very much." She was afraid she had hurt his feelings, and she, herself, was so tense, so troubled, that she was uncertain of her emotional attitudes these days. She felt that somehow she had been cruel and very ungracious toward the man to whom she owed so much. "I know," he said, "one is interested, of course, in a novel, foreign mountaineer." She was beginning to feel achy, and tears were near the surface. "Philip, why do you misunderstand me?" she cried. "It isn't that at all. I like you for the man you are." He smiled sadly. "And did it ever occur to you that I might love you for the woman you are?" he said suddenly, his good resolutions all gone. She stopped and her breath quickened. Over her rushed a tide of fear, regret, sorrow. Even then she wondered that it was pity and not anger which moved her. "I do not believe that. How could you?" she said swiftly. "You cannot even conceive of my loving you?" "I--I can, Philip--it isn't that, I--I"--she was floundering among her own emotions--"I can under other circumstances, different conditions. Oh, don't you see--think of"--she had almost said "Lawrence," but hastily substituted--"my husband." "I have thought of him. From the day you came, he has haunted my footsteps. But after all, he thinks you are dead." "But I love him. Think of that, too." "Oh, Claire, Claire, I have seen you when I felt perhaps you might--might learn to love me." "Philip, it is impossible!" she cried. "Please don't let's spoil everything now. I so wanted to be just friends." His faced kindled and his deep eyes glowed with a fire that both terrorized and fascinated her. "We cannot be that, Claire." His voice vibrated with growing passion. They stood, facing each other, and she trembled like a reed in the wind. "I saw you this morning in his arms," he was tense and speaking rapidly, "and I knew then that I loved you. Loved you with all the soul of me. I could have killed him, I tell you. Claire, Claire, I love you! You must not deny me love." She did not, could not answer, her tongue refused to move, and her dry, hot mouth felt as if she would smother. She looked into his eyes and said nothing, while she shook violently. "Claire!" he cried. "Claire! I love you!" His arms closed around her and he held her tightly. His eyes burned into her own with a flame that was contagious in its intensity. She gasped, trembled, and did not struggle, though in her mind she was crying, anguished, "Lawrence! Lawrence!" He pressed her more tightly, and his body against her own stirred in her a passion beyond the control of will. Her eyes lighted warmly and then closed. She felt suffocated, weak, and her senses reeled. His head bent, and his lips were pressed fiercely against her own parted ones, stopping the cry that rose to her throat. He held her fast, keeping his lips against her own until she felt her strength giving. She half leaned against him, letting the weight of her body sink into his arms. A savage joy sprang into his eyes. She opened her own and saw. Throwing up her hands wildly, she struck his face, twisted her body free, and shoving him from her, stood, white, defiant, and determined. She was not angry with Philip, only with herself, but the storm of self-reproach that swept over her burst into bitter, scorching words against him. "You, you coward! You dare to touch me, to take me that way! If I had only known what sort of a thing you were, you, you viper! Oh, to be here with you!" His dark eyes flashed with sudden rage, and he moved to seize her. She stood defiantly before him, her white face cold as outraged chastity itself, and his anger died. Into his face came the dejected, suffering look of a man whose passion ebbs before the compelling force of a woman's scorn. "Forgive me, Claire," he moaned, "forgive me. I was mad, mad." She knew he was sincere, and she smiled sadly. "I know, Philip," she said. "I understand, but you must realize that it is impossible. Won't you see that? It was, perhaps, partly my fault. Forgive me if it was, and let us be friends. Philip, I want a friend," she continued. "I need one, a big, strong man whom I can trust, whom I know to be my loyal friend and my husband's friend." He put out his hand, shame and love mingling in his face. "I will be that friend, Claire," he said, earnestly. She took his hand, her mind breaking with relief. She felt she was going to cry, and she leaned forward to hide her filling eyes. "Oh, Philip, God bless you! You do not know what this means to me! You will never know. I thank you, I thank you!" The tears rushed down her cheeks and dropped upon their clasped hands. "Claire, don't, please--please don't," Philip pleaded, anguish in his tone. She stopped, forced back her sobs, and smiled at him. "Philip Ortez," she said, "I shall make you glad of this." Deep in his heart, the words gave him hope. He grasped at them as a drowning man at a life-belt, but he did not voice the hope. "I want to spend much of my time with you, Philip, in the out-of-doors. I must do it, and it is such a relief to know that I can do it without--without fear. You will be just my friend, won't you?" "If it is in my power, I will." He spoke as a knight of old, taking a holy vow, and in his heart was the deep, sacred sense of the spirit that still moved in his idealistic soul. Claire laughed joyously, almost hysterically, with the peace that came over her at the sound of his words. She was sure that all was well. If she had known that already he was building on the promise of frequent days alone, she would have been more afraid than ever. But she did not know that, neither did she know that in her very promise she was preparing a more difficult situation for her own struggle with herself than any she had ever faced in her life. She was only aware of the crisis passed and the peace that was now hers. "Let us go back," she said gaily. They found Lawrence smoothing his little carved child with a stone. Claire was effervescent with joy. Her great plan seemed sure of success, and she greeted him with a gaiety that was as abnormal as her despondency had been before. "Lawrence," she cried, "we have had such a walk! And here you have finished for us this beautiful cherub as the symbol of our little home." Her words stung him with savage pain, filling him with a great fear born of love and jealousy. For a minute he did not know what he was doing or saying, and he was scarcely aware of the words that fell from him. "Cherubs are said to be symbols of the greatest love." He laughed tonelessly. "It belongs to you, Claire. Take it." The child was carved standing upon a stump with wings outspread. In the form and face of the figure there was so much of benevolence, love, and charity that the imaginative power of this blind artist filled Claire with awe. She stood reverently before it, her heart singing with pride in the handiwork of the man she loved. She interpreted his words as a confession that he had carved it for her as a symbol of his love, and she was humbled before him, before his work. She wanted to throw herself in his arms and to tell him with the gift of her unreserved self how grateful she was for his gift, but she only said, very softly, taking both his hands: "Thank you, Lawrence." The words struck his ear with a strangely mixed power in their sound. He wanted to laugh at the bitter mockery that swept into him. He had made the image for love of her, and he presented it to her as a symbol of her love for Philip. It was cruel, but he could endure it. Oh, yes, he was accustomed to life's little jokes. He did not answer her thanks, only gripped her hands in his own capable ones till he hurt her. To Philip, the child brought still other suggestions. Moved by his present feeling of great, chivalrous guardianship of the woman who had said she needed him, he felt that it was a symbol of the great sacrificial love which he was privileged to know, and at the same time he felt that it was a symbol of hope. TO BE CONTINUED NEXT WEEK. Don't forget this magazine is issued weekly, and that you will get the continuation of this story without waiting a month. Claire by Leslie Burton Blades THE BLIND LOVE OF A BLIND HERO _BY A BLIND AUTHOR_ This story began in the All-Story Weekly for October 5. CHAPTER XII. THE UNHORSING OF A KNIGHT ERRANT. Between men and women who have established what they believe to be an unemotional friendship there nearly always springs up a relation franker than any which is otherwise possible. Such was the experience of Philip and Claire during the days that followed. They took many walks together, and their conversation grew daily more exclusive and more personal. Lawrence, through ignorance of their situation and jealousy of Philip, grew daily more dissatisfied. He would hear the intimate ring in their voices and writhe within. The artist felt keenly that he was being set aside, and his eager determination to live and be in the front rank of warring manhood made him determine to win Claire against this man who, it seemed to him, was taking her from him by mere advantage of sight. He felt that they were shelving him as a blind man, a very nice fellow, but quite outside the possibility of any relation with their real lives. He now thought that Claire was kind to him as one is to those whose situation makes them objects of pity. There were days when he sat alone before the fire in the cabin brooding until he was filled with savage hatred of Philip. He would think of all sorts of impossible means of eliminating this Spaniard from Claire's life; then Philip would come in, talk to him, seem so very normally friendly as man to man, that his reason mastered his fancies and he laughed at himself. He ridiculed his own thoughts with an irony that inwardly grew in bitterness with his growing love for Claire, and he would end by admitting that Philip was only doing what he himself would like to do. In his fair-minded moments he did not blame his friend. "I should be a fool to expect him to act differently," he told himself. "In this struggle for meat and mate which we all wage, he is doing what any one would do. I who am losing must at least be just to him." He resolved to be just, and in a little while was again ensnaring himself in his own notions. "She is throwing herself away upon this Spaniard," he thought, "while I sit by. If I were not blind, she would see that after all I am the better man. I put all my power into the carving of that little statue, and she knows it is good, better than anything he has done or can do, and yet--she loves him." He would rise and walk the floor in his tension, knocking into the chairs recklessly. His thoughts would gain speed from his bodily movement, and soon he would rage against the man whose guest he was, against Claire, against life, fate, and blindness. Then suddenly his ever self-questioning mind would demand of him, "Why are you doing nothing, then?" He did nothing because he could do nothing. That was his answer, no sooner made than contradicted, no sooner contradicted than to be restated, "I do nothing because I will do nothing." Several times he refused to go with them on tramps or skiing trips. When they were gone he would revile himself for his stubbornness and ache because Claire could not see that he had refused with a petulant boy's hope that she would stay with him. "Why should she stay with me?" There was no reason, he told himself, and again he would be off on a mental whirlwind that carried him still farther from reason. He became perpetually sullen, irritable, and discontented. He realized it, thought that Claire would certainly grow to dislike him if he continued so disagreeable, and with the thought became even more disagreeable. Claire, however, was not growing to dislike him. She avoided him in pursuance of her settled policy, but she thought of him all the more. One morning when she and Philip were out in the pines together, she observed, casually, "Lawrence doesn't seem to be doing any work these days." Philip glanced at her carelessly. "Yes. I'm very sorry for the poor fellow." His pity angered her a little. Lawrence did not need his sympathy. "I think he must be feeling badly," she replied. "I believe he is moody by nature." "Oh, do you? I hadn't thought so," she objected. "It is not strange," Philip went on; "he is so limited by his blindness and so ambitious that the effect is almost sure to be a disgruntled mind. He cannot hope to overcome his blindness, and he ought to realize it. I think that is the cause of his odd philosophy. He certainly would be happier if he could get a more sunlit view of things. He needs optimism, and he ought to practise it." For a moment, Claire was silent. She was not willing to admit that Lawrence was unable to conquer blindness or even that his beliefs were altogether wrong. She had more often disagreed with him than not, but now for some reason she found herself desiring to support his convictions. "I don't agree with you," she answered Philip, a little shortly. "Well then, what is my lady's diagnosis?" He had not noticed her curt reply, for he was thinking of something else and was not really interested in Lawrence as a topic of conversation. Claire was unable to answer; she disliked both his tone and his expression, but she had nothing to substitute for his explanation. They walked on in silence for a few minutes through the trees before she ventured a little lamely, "I don't know what to say." Philip looked up, smilingly. "To say about what, Claire?" Then he remembered, and continued hastily, "Oh, pardon me. I know, of course. About Lawrence. If I could suggest anything to do, I would. He is an interesting friend, but I have nothing to offer. It seems to me that we can do no more than to let him alone. He will work it out for himself. If he does not, we cannot help. He would not expect us to do so." "That's no reason we shouldn't try," she flashed, "unless, of course, you quite agree with his argument after all." Philip colored slightly and said, "I admit the fault, Claire, but what can we do?" "Couldn't you get him to tell what's the matter?" she asked, groping for something to say. "No more than you could. Perhaps even less easily. You know him better than I and understand him better." She laughed, a little satisfaction warming her at his words. "Sometimes I think I understand him, sometimes I know I don't. As he himself would say, it is merely a matter of blind psychology, is it not?" "It is not," she answered positively. "It's more a matter of artist psychology, I think." "Perhaps," he admitted; "certainly the combination is difficult." "I do wish we could do something for him." "He would be better off if he would come out with us, but since he will not, he will not." Philip's tone showed clearly that he was inclined to let the matter drop. But not so Claire. "You are willing to help me, aren't you, Philip?" "Why yes, if there is any way in which I can be of service." "We might stay and talk with him more." "That is useless, I fear," he said abruptly, his own wishes revolting against sacrificing his companionship with Claire or against sharing it with Lawrence. "He was unhesitating in his care for me those days we wandered," she remarked simply. "Pardon me again. I forgot for the time that you owed him anything." "He doesn't consider that I owe him anything. It's simply that I want him to be as happy as possible shut up here with us away from his own kind of life." "Oh!" Philip looked at her thoughtfully. "Do you think he could be happier with other people?" "I'm afraid so," she answered, a little regretfully. Philip's eyes searched her face. "I should think you could satisfy any one's need for companionship," he said, quietly. "Don't flatter, Philip. That was a very silly speech." "Was it? It was not flattery at any rate. It is my feeling about you." "Please," she said, stopping, "let's not go into that again." "Very well, but why cannot my lady extend her charity? There are other unfortunates besides Lawrence who have troubles to face." "Oh, Philip, you really haven't any troubles. You merely imagine you have." He laughed, a little bitterly. "I suppose a life's happiness is a small thing." "It isn't, Philip," she protested. "But you can get out and tramp and trap and see things, and, after all, you don't really love me as you thought you did. We've settled all that." "I know we have," he agreed. "That is, you have." She looked him over, angrily. "So this is the outcome! I ask you to think of another person who needs our care, and you disregard him for your own little troubles!" Philip looked down and flushed crimson. "Well, it does seem as if I were selfish. I am afraid I am. But I do not mean to be. I can talk to him if you wish." "You needn't," she said, angered still more. "It isn't charity I'm asking you to bestow on him. He doesn't need that, and you ought to know it." She had laid more emphasis than she intended on the word "he," and Philip's face darkened. "I see," he said coldly. "It is I after all to whom you are charitable. Thank you." Tears of vexation came to Claire's eyes. "Oh, I do wish you'd be reasonable," she said, half angrily, half pleadingly. "Don't you understand that I am giving you more frank friendship than ever I gave any man in my life? Isn't that of any value to you? Don't you realize how unfair you have been to Lawrence?" His face grew suddenly white, as he said, "Do you love him, Claire?" She did not look away from him. "If I did, would it concern you?" He took one step toward her, then stopped. "Yes, it would," he answered. Her anger almost mastered her, but she controlled herself. "Philip, are we two irrational animals going to spoil everything? I had hoped you might at least allow our companionship to live." He looked at her without answering. Finally, he choked, "Don't--don't, Claire, I have the right to know." "If I promise to tell you when there is anything to tell, will you be satisfied?" She felt no scruple of conscience at her pretense of indifference to Lawrence, only a sense of protection for him. She did not know from what she was protecting him, but the feeling gave her a strange pleasure. "I will," Philip returned, simply. "And in the mean time will you help me pull him out of his slough of despond?" she asked, smiling with the old, frank, intimate manner. "Surely I will, though I confess I do not see the way." "Then shall we go at once and begin our cheering process, my friend?" she said, as though she were conferring a favor by the use of the word. He winced at her immediate application of his promise. "Perhaps we would better," he answered sadly, and turned toward the cabin. As she walked by his side she had already dismissed him from her attention and was busy planning what she might do to make Lawrence happy. When they entered the cabin, Claire looked eagerly about the room. As she glanced around, her face clouded. Lawrence was gone. His coat and hat were not on the rack, and the cane which he had carved one day from a stick which she had brought him from the woods was also missing. Claire walked slowly into the room, her mind filled with an unaccountable apprehension. "Why, how abandoned the place seems without Lawrence! Where is he, I wonder?" She tried to appear casual. Philip followed her in and placed a chair for her. His mind, already touched with the potential jealousy that Claire's talk had begun, leaped ahead at her words and he felt more than ever doubtful of her attitude toward Lawrence. Though he quickly dispelled his fear, the thought left behind, as such things do, the readier soil for a stronger weed to spring up in. "He has gone out for a walk, I suppose. Doubtless, he will be back soon." His voice was indifferent. "Will you not sit down, Claire? You stand there looking about you as though you had lost something." She was on the point of saying she had, but checked herself, and accepted the chair. "It's so unusual. He never did this before." Claire forced a smile. "Well, he will be the better for it; I am glad that he has gone out," Philip answered. "I know, but it is so difficult for him to find his way through the snow," she said. "He told me it muffles sounds until he is almost helpless in it. His feet can't feel the ground, and he doesn't know which way to turn." "He cannot possibly go far, and he cannot get lost." Philip's tone was becoming a little edged. "All the same, it worries me to have him out this way." Philip started toward the door. "Shall I go search for him?" His voice, unknown to himself, was heavy. Claire glanced at him quickly. Her intuition told her he was jealous, and she saw he was angry. She wanted to shout at him, "Go find Lawrence!" and she was surprised at the sudden panicky nervousness that seized her. But she rose calmly and crossed to the fireplace, saying as she sat down, "No, thank you; I think he is able to take care of himself." Philip also seated himself. "I think he is," he said. "Certainly he thinks so, and comes near enough to proving his assertion." She was both angry and pleased with his words. "I never saw a man less handicapped by misfortune," she remarked. "He does do very well." "Lawrence seems all capable sense-nerves, and he is so very efficient with his touch. What a keen appreciation of beauty he has!" "I think he does remarkably well." "In the hills he used to describe scenes to me, and do it accurately just from their sound; running water and wind in the trees," she went on, not noticing Philip's short replies. "Yes, that is quite surprising." "He certainly has taught me a great deal about blindness." "Association with him does do that." "Do you know, I believe he is one of the most unusual men I have ever known." Philip rose quickly. "Doubtless. He is not the only topic of conversation our friendship permits, is he, Claire?" She looked up at him, and rose immediately, her eyes flashing. "I think you are more selfish with your theories of altruism than he with his egoism." Philip looked quietly back at her. "Perhaps I am where the woman I love is concerned." Claire turned away and walked angrily toward her room. "I see you can't maintain a friendship," she exclaimed. "Meaning, you cannot." Philip's voice was bitter. She turned quickly and looked at him. "What do you mean?" she asked him, fearing. "I mean that you are unfair. You ask me not to talk of my love, you wish to talk friendship, while you are forcing me by your every word and act to think of my own misery." Claire stood aghast before him. His words seemed to her to be an accusation so grossly false that she was stunned beyond anger. "I don't understand," she said anxiously. "You ought to understand. I love you, I cannot help but love you, fight it as I will. You say you cannot love me because of your husband. Yet your talk is not of your husband, but of this blind man. You say you desire friendship, yet you allow me all that a woman allows her accepted suitor." Claire was appalled. She stared at him in amazement, faltering. "Why, Philip, I--what is the matter? I don't do any such thing." He laughed. "Of course not," he replied. "You look at me with that warm light in your eyes, because you think I am not human. I am a mere duenna, a chaperon, perhaps." She sank into a chair and covered her face. "I didn't think," she moaned, and could say no more. A thousand memories of her intimate treatment of Philip swept through her mind. She had considered him as one of her own family, without thought, without intent, because she had believed so strongly in his assurance of friendship. After a pause, she gathered her thoughts. "Philip, I may have done as you say," she spoke slowly, "but it was not because I was not conscious of your manhood. It was because I thought you stronger than you are. I believed you could be my friend and not ask more." He stood quietly looking at her where she sat. "And what of him?" he asked, steadily. "I am worried about him because he is blind, nothing more." She lied, looking straight into his eyes, then rose and stepped behind the curtain. "Claire," he almost sang. "I am deeply, humbly, a thousand times sorry. You cannot know how your talk of Lawrence made me wild. I am a fool, I will admit, but I cannot think of your loving him, blind, selfish, egoistic, intolerant of other people, I cannot." "You needn't," she returned, coldly. Her whole soul was filled with rage. She was recalling that he had said her eyes were alight when she looked at him, and she told herself that it was not true. "Won't you give me a chance to show myself as I am, Claire? I want to prove to you that I am not a selfish beast." She thought of Lawrence's cynical view of Philip's sentiments, and she laughed. Philip groaned, and then said again, "Aren't you fair enough to do that, Claire?" "And what will you read in my eyes next?" she inquired icily. "Whatever is there?" he answered. "But your imagination spoils your sight," she returned. "Perhaps. I will not deny that I am not myself where you are concerned. But I ask only for one more trial. And I will do my best." Claire was growing more and more worried about Lawrence. What could have happened to him? "Then go and find Lawrence," she said suddenly. CHAPTER XIII. FAINT HEART AND FAIR LADY. Claire heard Philip leave the house, and she sat down on her bed to wait and think. It seemed ages that she sat there, her imagination busy with a hundred possible calamities. When she finally heard the door open she was almost afraid to look. "Lawrence!" Her voice was full of warm gladness. He was hanging his hat in its place. "Hello, Claire. Back, are you?" His voice held the impersonal, sullen note that he used of late. "Where is Philip?" "Why, didn't he find you?" Lawrence was immediately angry. He thought, "Why should Philip be hunting for me? I don't need his care. Can't I even go out without a guardian?" "I didn't see him," he returned, aloud. "I sent him to find you." She was standing looking at him, her whole figure expressing love and relief at his return. He was too angry to catch the fine warmth of her voice, and his inability to see handicapped him more at that moment than at any time in his life. "I sent him to find you," she said again. "He didn't. I came back as I went, alone." "Lawrence, what is the matter with you?" she asked, pleadingly, with tears in her voice. He felt the emotion in her words, and was suddenly contrite. If he had known it, he was acting like the sentimentalists whom he ridiculed, but he suffered from the egotist's fate, he did not recognize his own failing. "I don't know that there is anything the matter, Claire. It angered me to think that you still imagine that because I am blind I need a guardian," he said, dropping into a chair. She came over toward him, impulsively. "That isn't the idea at all," she said, still very worried. "It was simply that you told me yourself that you were helpless in the snow." "I didn't ask to be cared for," he snapped. "I wasn't caring for you--nor about you," she retorted, in sudden irritation. "I didn't want you to be lost, that's all." "I should think you'd be glad to see me gone." He was a little ashamed of his own words, but he did not try to remedy the speech. "What do you mean?" He smiled ironically. "Even a blind man sometimes sees too much of lovers." Claire sank into a chair and struggled against the starting sobs. It seemed to her that her whole life was becoming one continual argument wherein she was accused and in return forced to demand explanations. "What in the world do you mean?" she faltered. "Are you saying that Philip and I are lovers?" "Aren't you?" "Of course not! It isn't like you to say that. And what if we were?" "It wouldn't be any of my business, would it?" He was bitter. "I suppose not," she said, weakly. "You needn't be hesitant about admitting it. It's true," he went on. "Why shouldn't it be? I am a mere piece of excess baggage which you are too kind-hearted to eliminate. I know that, too. Why shouldn't you eliminate me?" He smiled, satirically. "If I were Philip Ortez, loving you and loved in return, I would feel like killing the blind man, whose presence hampered." She stared at him, wondering if he were in earnest. "Then it's fortunate that you haven't the opportunity to feel that way." "Obviously." He laughed, sullenly. "I sha'n't, because you couldn't love a blind man." Claire only sat and looked at him, thrilled with the knowledge that he was about to tell her he loved her. She was trembling and desperately afraid of herself. She moved uneasily, and against her will; her lips said, "I could love a blind man, Lawrence." He sat up and clenched his hands together quickly. The tone of her voice in itself was a direct confession. But his deep skepticism of blindness would not let him believe that he was right. "Do you mean that you do love me?" he demanded. She wanted to say "Yes," but she thought of Philip and was afraid of what he might do, should he learn of her lie. Then, too, there was her resolution to go back to Howard. Strange that her long-planned friendly explanation of her own attitude did not occur to her, but it did not. Lawrence rose and came toward her, his hands out. He was determined to know, once and for all. The gathering emotion in his breast was growing into an unbearable pain. "Claire," he said, coming nearer and nearer. "Could you love me?" His hands were almost to her. She saw them coming; terror, love, happiness, anguish, and the desire to be his paralyzed her will. She did not move. "Yes," she whispered, "I could." He put his arms around her and lifted her until she was crushed against him. "Do you love me, Claire?" he asked, tensely. She did not answer, but her head sank against his shoulder. Outside the cabin, she heard Philip's step in the snow. "No!" she cried frantically, filled with dread. "No, no! Let me go!" Lawrence, too, heard, and released her, stepping back indifferently, as though just going toward a chair. The door opened, and Philip entered. "Oh, you're back, I see." The artist was coldly cordial in his greeting. "And I see you, which is more important," Philip laughed. "I suppose so." Lawrence sat down, thoughtfully. "Claire has just scolded me for going out. She doesn't like to have me add to the bother I am already." Claire was still under the spell of her own emotion, and she resented Lawrence's sang-froid. He was as cold as a block of stone. Her heart cried out against him because he could not see why she had said "No" to him, because he believed her! She wanted to cry, but did not dare. "I told him we were worried," she said, indifferently. "So we were." Philip was cheerful and friendly. Lawrence buried himself from them both, and sat brooding, clothed in the blackness that blindness brought when it suddenly loomed before him as the wall between him and his life's desires. The brief instant Claire had been in his arms had made him feel that his life was intolerable without her, and that blindness was the curse of a double living death. She had told him that she did not love him. She had struggled to be free. Lawrence failed to read Claire aright because he had not seen her, and because his blindness made him uncertain of himself. That was the truth of it all, the awful truth of his life. He was always uncertain of himself because he was afraid of blindness. He strutted, boasted, lied, and above all pretended to himself that he believed his hard philosophy because he was afraid, afraid of failing to do the things he wanted to do. He saw himself clearly now, he was a coward, a deceiving ape, a monkey caught in the terror of tangling roots, and denying it. He barked like a frightened dog, at the thing that was his master. He was gripped by life, tortured by life, denied death by life, and cheated by life of living. His imagination, fired by his passion, leaped into play, and he felt himself a thousand times a slave, a chained prisoner in the hand of circumstance. Philip was laughing gaily, and talking to Claire, who listened, answered, and was all the while lost in her own thought. When he had entered, Philip had looked quickly at the two to see if there was aught between them, and had found Lawrence colder, more despondent than ever. He told himself that Lawrence had evidently pleaded with Claire for her love and been denied. At least, this blind man had not been successful, and Philip could afford to be good-humored. The more agreeable he was, the more Claire would turn to him from that dark, ungracious form yonder. His would be the victory of pleasant manners. Therefore he talked, gladly, smilingly, while Claire listened, or seemed to listen. She was rebellious at the fear which had made her cry "No" to Lawrence, and at the same time glad that she had done so, afraid of the future, exasperated with Philip for coming in at the supreme moment, and angry with Lawrence for his stupidity. Perhaps these tangled relations might have been cleared had it not been for a piece of folly more stupendous than any they had yet experienced. This event occurred the day after Lawrence's walk in the snow. Philip had stepped out for a few minutes to look at a near-by trap, and Claire and the artist were left alone for the first time since her denial. She wanted him to renew his suit, feared that he would, and sat waiting for him to speak. But he remained silent, and at last she said, "Lawrence." "Well?" He did not move. The psychology of woman has been too often commented upon and attempted by those who thought they could explain. Why Claire was doing and saying what she did, she herself could not tell. "Lawrence, don't you ever, ever act as you did yesterday again." He smiled. "It would be dangerous if your gallant should come in less slowly." He was filled with a desire to hurt her. Claire was angry with him for saying what was so utterly far from her mind and so different from what she wanted him to say. "If my gallant should come in," she thrust coldly, "he would scarcely appreciate the melodrama you are playing." Lawrence sat up with a jerk, his rage near the boiling point. "What do you mean?" he demanded. "I have not interfered with your delightful episode, have I?" "No, and you couldn't. I mean that my husband--he is my lover--for I know that is what you intend by 'gallant'--would scarcely appreciate the type of man who mopes and abuses the woman who does not care to lie in his arms." Lawrence sat still, while a fierce, uncontrollable rage consumed him. He felt that to take this woman and whip her into submission would be a pleasure. He thought of the lash he had in his studio at home and wished it were in his hand. With the thought he rose and stepped swiftly toward Claire, his teeth set. She saw him, and rose. "I have one way of showing you who is master," he began, and stopped. She had stepped forward and was standing almost against him. "Even blindness does not allow you the freedom to threaten." He shrank back and dropped once more into his chair. Claire was talking rapidly, savagely. Later she was to be thrown into a despairing self-hate that kept her many a night in tears, but now she went on. "Do you think I will overlook everything in you because I pity you? There have been times when your impositions, so carelessly thrust upon me, because you were selfish, because you knew I must accept them from you, were almost unbearable. The touch of your thief-trained hands to steal from everything its beauty and self-respect has galled me beyond all endurance. My body has received its last vile grasp from you." She stopped, appalled at his expression. She did not know, neither of them knew, that love, the ever-changing impulse of creation within men and women, speaks its desire through bitter scorn and abuse, when softer words are too slow in finding their way. He was sitting there, white, anguished, cowering under her tongue, his whole life shaken. Her words made him feel that the thing she said was true. He had always feared it, realizing that in a measure it was inevitable, and his great strength was now turned against himself, against his bitter handicap, and he was in that tremendous upheaval that requires a rebuilding of one's faith. His belief in himself was broken. His belief in his power was gone. Coming after weeks of thought and fear about blindness, Claire's words tore him asunder and made him feel that there was nothing for him but abject misery and dependence upon charity. Instinctively, his hand went up as if to shield him from a blow, and he murmured, "For God's sake, Claire!" There was to come a time, later, when experience would have taught him that there is a wild strain in the nature of human hearts which abuses out of a desire to be conquered. He did not yet realize that he had spoken truly when he said that this woman had hidden in her the savage warring sexed tumult of all the struggling ages. She saw him there, his hand up, and suddenly her emotion changed. It was love, still love crying out for expression, but now she was all compassion, tenderness, and fear. She read in his face what she had done, and her heart was gray with the pain at her own failure. Now all love for her was buried, perhaps dead, under his shattered selfhood, slain in the wrecking earthquake that she had brought to pass with the ardor of her passion. She had meant to sting him into taking her in his arms and forcing her to love him, and instead--"Oh, God!" she whispered, and slipped behind the curtain to throw herself on her bed and weep with heart wrung by self-condemnation and loving pity for the man whom she had clubbed with his own dread weakness. She had shattered into chaos the strong soul of the man she loved, with the only weapon he would have felt, and she realized now that it was her love, her desire to be his, to be his utterly, that had led her to do it. Lawrence was too hurt to move. His mind repeated again and again the words she had spoken. He kept saying to himself: "Blindness has made me that, an egotist beggar." He did not reproach Claire. She had swept him too far from his habitual moorings for that. There was no rebellion against her, none, indeed, against life. Over him rolled wave after wave of self-contempt, distrust, and anguish that shook him with an agony that only the assured man knows when the one he loves most of all on earth strikes dead his faith in himself. He thought of a multitude of things that stabbed anew, but not once did he move in the interminable period that passed before Philip returned. When he did come, the Spaniard was amazed at the crouching, white-faced man whom he found before a dying fire. There was something so sad in the blind face that Philip felt no suspicion and no anger. He looked for Claire, but she was not visible. He stirred the fire and set about preparing supper while his mind began digging at the problem which he saw in the attitude of the man there in the chair. Claire did not come out to help. She was too exhausted from the storm that had swept over her. In her bed she could hardly smother the scream that kept rising to her lips. She wanted to spring up and cry aloud to Lawrence for forgiveness. She was scarcely aware of Philip as he moved about. She could have thrown herself at Lawrence's feet and pleaded with him. She was discovering that her whole wild outbreak was a strange expression of her physical desire for this man whom she loved, and the discovery made her as self-detesting as she had been violent in her outbreak. It seemed to her that there was nothing, nothing she would not do to make amends to Lawrence for what she had said. She wanted to tell him what it had been that prompted her, but she dared not lest in revulsion at her viciousness he turn on her and kill her. "God, God," she muttered, "what have I done!" Philip was calling her to supper. She steadied her voice, and said humbly: "I can't come out. I'm not feeling very well. Go on without me, please." She heard him speak to Lawrence, and she strained her ears to catch the answering movement toward the table, but there was none. At last Philip spoke again in a voice that was full of anxiety: "Lawrence, what in God's name has happened?" Lawrence was moving now, and she waited with bated breath for his answer. He walked to the table and sat down. His voice was heavy. "I've found myself out, Philip. That's all. I know what I am." There was a moment of silence. Claire covered her mouth with her hand to suppress a cry. She wanted to shout: "No, no, no, not that, but what I am, my beloved, my adored one." "What do you mean?" Philip's voice seemed stern. "I mean that I am indebted to you and Claire for the truth I needed." Behind the curtain Claire turned on her face and burst into sobs. Philip arose abruptly. "Lawrence," he said quietly, "I do not know what has happened to you this afternoon; I do not know what you mean; but this I do know: I am deeply sorry if anything I have done or said has made you feel that you are an unwelcome guest in my home." Lawrence stood up and gathered his scattered senses. "Philip, I beg your pardon, old man. It isn't that at all. The truth is"--and his voice broke--"I have lied to myself and to the world these many years. Much of it hasn't been my fault, but I must pay the price just the same. I am blind. That has led me to a sort of clamorous egoism which carried me on and on until I came to feel that I was really doing something. At last, I know that I am a narrow human parasite, worthless, utterly worthless. A blind, clinging, grasping, vagrant beast, fed upon the mercy of too kind-hearted humanity. I am sorry. It isn't my fault, but it is so." Philip stood for a few minutes in silence. "You're ill, Lawrence," he said finally. "Get back to yourself if you can. Things do not stay at this point in human abasement. I know of what I speak. I have been through that myself. I cannot say anything comforting. No one can." They went to bed with but a few commonplace remarks, and the cabin became silent. Lawrence lay awake through that night. Claire, unknown to him, spent her vigil in a great readjustment of her life. CHAPTER XIV. PHILIP TO THE RESCUE. It is always the little things in human relations that have the most far-reaching results. Claire might have avoided much trouble with a few well-chosen words to Lawrence, but her own mental state prevented her from speaking. On his part, Lawrence was so shaken by her outburst that his love for her was driven deep into his subconscious self, and for the time it lay there dormant. After the sudden volcanic upheaval of his entire universe, he was utterly absorbed in the immediate task of reconstructing his faith in himself. The primitive stages of his thinking did not allow for any relation between himself and the woman who had released the dam of self-abasement. She was unavoidably at hand, reminding him of her speech, and that alone delayed what otherwise would have been an unconscious process. Claire was not able to forget the intense desire which, she now realized, had prompted her terrible diatribe. Humiliation held her in its throes, and she was reserved, distant, and unnatural toward him. Philip saw it all, and his mind was filled with conjectures which made him less and less charitable toward Lawrence, more jealous, and more hopeful of a happy issue of his love for Claire. She turned to him eagerly for companionship. Instinctively she sought refuge from her own thoughts--and from Lawrence--by talking to Philip. The morning after the incident between Lawrence and Claire there had been an austere reserve in the cabin. Claire had fled from the oppressive gloom into the open. Outside Philip joined her, and they walked together in silence. He was determined not to ask Claire what had happened, although he was extending her a silent sympathy which she felt and a little resented. Lawrence, left alone in the cabin, gave small heed to their departure. He had risen with a frightful headache and a fever. He lay on the bed and thought of his situation, his past life, and his future chances, in bitter, heartrending, self-condemnatory sarcasm which made his condition even less tolerable than it would have been otherwise. "I am a miserable groveler at the feet of humanity," he thought, "clutching at shrinking shoestrings for a piece of bread in pity's name. If I could see, God, if I only could!" He thought of all the little things which his blindness made it absolutely necessary for others to do for him, and his excited mind magnified them into colossal proportions. If his landlady in New York had removed a spot from his clothes, as she had often done, that was a proof of his despised state. He fell to imagining that he was unkempt, dirty, disgustingly unclean, and that people had tolerated it because they had pitied him. At last, with a cry of anguish, he thought: "And my work, too, it is a botched mess which they are amused at and do not dare to tell me the truth about. It, too, is a jest that the world is having at my expense." He remembered praise and prizes that he had won in contests with other students, and he was too excited to see the folly of his answer: "That was charity, the award of kindness to me. I know now what they thought--that for a blind man the thing was nearly enough correct to be interesting and quite amusing." His body felt hot, and he went outside to prowl about in the wind and snow, like a despairing beast. His mind kept up its terrible work, and he did not notice the continual drop in temperature. Round and round the cabin he walked, instead of going into the forest, as he would have done the day before. In his mind was a sudden doubt of his own ability, and he said that Claire had been right to keep him in. She was more aware of his pitiable weakness than he. At last, however, from sheer weariness he went inside. He was chilled through, but instead of rebuilding the fire and warming himself, he rolled up in a blanket and lay on the bed, chilling and burning by turns. In the mean time Claire and Philip were discussing the man in the cabin. Philip had finally broken the silence by saying: "Claire, you needn't feel so about whatever has happened. Remember he is blind and must be treated less critically than other men." She knew that that was just what had made Lawrence so deadly white when she had spoken, and it filled her with sickening pain. She answered unsteadily: "That isn't true. It isn't Lawrence, anyway, it's myself who should be condemned." Philip was thoughtful. "It is like you to take the blame on yourself. You are so kind-hearted that way." In her present state, his words seemed like a reproach. "Philip, don't," she said sadly. "I know better than that." He persisted. "No, you do not. You are too sympathetic, and you let your heart get the better of you." "I wish you wouldn't talk that way," she repeated. "You wouldn't, if you knew the truth." "Of course, I do not know what happened," he said, "but I do know you--even better than you know yourself." "Do you know what I've done?" "No, and I do not care. It was right, I am sure. The queen can do no wrong." He was intensely serious. "Isn't there any common sense left in you, Philip?" she railed. "Have you gone clear back into medieval nonsense in your feeling toward me? I tell you, you are indulging in foolishness." "Am I?" He smiled. "Well, if that is the best I have to give--" "I don't want you to give me anything." "But I cannot help it, neither can you." "I have killed a man's love before this," she answered bitterly. "But you cannot kill mine. I love you, whether you love me or not. I am proud to acknowledge my unreturned love." "As you please." Claire stopped suddenly. "Are we apt to get anywhere with this subject?" she asked ironically. "I don't know. I earnestly hope so." She looked at Philip thoughtfully. Perhaps the truth about her own weakness might cure him. "Suppose I allowed you to love me, and you found that you had won a woman whose passions were her whole life. Suppose she should prove to be a mere bundle of sex, all polished over with other people's ideas, a social manner, and a set of morals which she did not really feel, which were deceiving ornaments hiding her soul. What would you think of your prize?" "I should not love such a woman. I could not." "But suppose you were deceived and thought her other than she was." "I hardly expect such a thing to happen. Why suppose?" "Because if I were your wife you might find it to be true." Philip laughed aloud. "Claire, how preposterous! Are you trying to kill my love for you with such terrifying pictures of depravity?" "I wasn't trying to do anything. I just wanted to know." "Have you been answered?" "Yes, you are like all of your type; you are in love with what your own desire chooses as an ideal, and then you shout, 'Behold, I am not a sensual lover!'" He stared at her in amazement. "What sort of a thing do you think I am?" She laughed carelessly. "A man. And what do you think I am?" "A very strange woman, but a dear one," he said earnestly. "Why strange, Philip?" "Because you talk of love as Lawrence might." She winced. "He would know," she said. "He does know, perhaps." She was talking to herself, and her voice was pathetic. Philip's eyes grew fierce with anger. "What do you mean?" "Not what your very ideal mind thinks," she said coldly. He flamed scarlet, and looked away. "Claire," he said softly, "will you never have done stirring up suspicions no man could avoid, and then condemning them?" "I didn't stir them up," she mocked. "Who did, then?" Claire was undergoing a developing reconstruction, but that she did not know. She thought she was degenerating, and the immediate result was to make her careless and ironical. "Oh, the devil, perhaps," she hazarded. "What are you, Claire?" Philip demanded hoarsely. Suddenly her suffering broke into tears. To his utter amazement, she began to cry unrestrainedly. Over and over she sobbed: "I don't know, I don't know." For a moment Philip stood motionless, bewildered, then his love and natural tenderness swept over him, and he said tenderly, "Don't, Claire, please." She only cried harder, weakened the more by his pity. He took her in his arms as he would a child, and comforted her. She was tempted to struggle, but her need for sympathy prevailed, and she did not resist him. He held her in his arms, pouring out his love, his anxiety, his tenderness, and in her momentary condition she listened and made no protest. In her aching mind she kept repeating, "I have killed Lawrence's love with my bestial talk"--and she wanted love. She did not think of her husband. He was too far away. In her present attitude she exalted Lawrence to the unattainable, and, without formulating the thought, she was willing to lie in Philip's arms and take what he could give. They were two of a kind, she thought scornfully. In her bitterness, the bleak, snow-covered land, with its drooping pines, seemed in its cold monotony a fitting background for two such worthless derelicts. In the Spaniard's mind was but one thought--to comfort Claire and restore her to her usual self. Vaguely he knew that love was already promised by the unresisting body in his arms, but there was no thought of immediately pressing his suit. He petted and talked until she stopped crying, then he stood her on her feet, and said, with a tender laughter in his words: "There, you are all right again. We would better go in. You are cold." Silently she walked beside him back to the cabin. She was indifferent, she thought, as to whether he did or did not continue his appeals for love. She was under her own deep, unexplained, emotional control which led her forward. She was finding herself, but before she would be safe she would have to throw off a mass of traditional views, beliefs, and teachings. If Philip chose to press his suit while her knowledge of herself still seemed vile and abnormal, she would be surely his. Claire thought herself lost. She had revealed her terrible state to Lawrence, killed his love, filled him with abhorrence, and struck at his life's source. With silent turmoil in her brain she entered the cabin beside Philip. When she saw Lawrence, a sharp pain went through her. He was white as death save for the red spots that marked his fever. She took off her coat and snow-cap hurriedly. "Lawrence," she said softly, going toward him. He lifted his head slightly. "What is it, Claire?" "I want to do something for you. You're ill." His face clouded. "No, thanks," he said. "You've done too much for me already." "Won't you do anything for yourself?" she begged. "I'll be all right. It's just a cold, I guess." Philip came and stood looking down at Lawrence scrutinizingly, while Claire went to the fire and heated water. "I am going to fill you up with quinin," he announced. "It is never missing from my medicine-chest." "All right," Lawrence laughed. "It isn't bitter compared to what I'm filling myself with." "Are you not making a fool of yourself?" Philip asked plainly. "Yes. I know it. That doesn't keep me from doing it, though." Claire turned and looked at them, her eyes sternly reproachful toward Philip. "One can't help thinking," she said. "I can't." "I shouldn't want you to," Lawrence returned. "Indeed, I'm grateful to you for making me think, too." "She started you off, did she?" Philip smiled. Lawrence did not answer, and Philip sat down by the fire where he could watch Claire as she worked. After a time Lawrence said thoughtfully: "If one could establish some sort of a relation between himself and the ultimate first cause of all this blind snowstorm we call life, things might get shaped with some measure for perspectives." "Yes," Philip assented. "I manage to establish one, though I confess it isn't clearly logical." "What is it?" Lawrence asked. "Simply having faith; hope, if you prefer it." "But faith in what, and what do you base it on?" "Oh, on my experience." "I wonder if we really matter at all to the rest of the scheme," Claire voiced. "I am inclined to think not," replied Lawrence. "We matter only to ourselves, and what we can do with the universe around us." "We matter to God, I think," said Philip. "I don't mean in the old accepted sense; but we must matter to Him in some way, perhaps as your statue here matters to you." Lawrence chuckled weakly. "It mattered tremendously when I was doing it. Now it doesn't in the least matter. I shouldn't care if you burned it as firewood." "But you must care," Claire protested, feeling that he was losing interest in his work because of her. "I don't see why. I haven't any real assurance as to its value. It may be good, more likely it isn't; in any case, I have turned it loose to shift for itself. It can survive or not; its doing so is immaterial. Perhaps as immaterial as my existence is to the Great Artist who conceived the botched job called me." "But, Lawrence, why insist that you don't matter to Him?" "Oh, because I am scarcely aware of Him at all; indeed, I am not aware of Him, and I am sure He isn't aware of me." "You have not any way to prove that," declared Philip. "True, except that I can imaginatively comprehend the size of time and space, and all that is therein. I know my own size, and I can readily imagine that the creator of the whole is no more aware of me than I am, say, of a small worm that may be in the heart of my cherub there." "We do seem pretty small in the face of the stars," said Claire. "Yes, and so impossible," added Lawrence. "I didn't realize until to-day how utterly impossible I really am." "But, impossible or not, here you are," Philip laughed. "Yes, here I am and there I may be, but in either place I am not especially possible. You are; you can go out and make a definite, independent impression on life; that makes you possible in that you are forcing recognition of power and capability. I can't do that. The impression I make is one of incapability. For myself I am impossible, and for others more so." "Which has nothing to do with God," said Philip, in his tone a touch of distaste. Lawrence recognized it and became silent. Claire made him take the quinin and heated bricks for his feet. Philip went out to cut wood for the fire, leaving her alone with the sick man. She was so full of her own wickedness, as she conceived it, that she dared not tell him her thoughts. She wanted to explain that she loved him, that she had loved him all along, but she could not. She looked at him, and felt sure that he had now no love for her. Lawrence was trying to follow out in his mind a searching inquiry as to his relation to life. "If I could only establish that," he thought, "I could get myself straight and there would be something to start from. If I knew which way to move!" But he was unable to do any coherent thinking. His head ached, his lips burned with fever, and his body kept him busy with the sensation of pain. It seemed to him that illness made his state more detestable, but it also offered him a chance of escape from the whole drab business. He was quite sure that he wanted to escape, and he would not have believed it if any one had told him that he would resist death to the uttermost; yet deep within him was that will to live which had made him the creative artist. It was working, unknown to him, now, toward the reconstruction he so needed. He turned restlessly, and muttered something about his foolishness. Claire came and sat beside him silently. She was wondering what would happen if she should tell him of her discovery of herself. "Claire!" Lawrence spoke. "Is it possible for any one to get his life platform built so that it will stand without that first great plank?" "What plank?" "God." "I don't know." "It seems to me that you couldn't have shaken me so yesterday if I had been built up right." "Lawrence," she said piteously, "I didn't mean to do that, to say that." He waved her words aside. "Never mind, Claire, it did me good. I was not realizing, quite, just what I was. I'm finding it out, and when I get right I'll be all the better for it." "But you don't know why I did it." "Yes, I do, but it doesn't matter, anyway. What was behind your words doesn't count so long as you told the truth." "But it does count, and I didn't tell the truth." "I'm afraid you did. Please don't try to cover it with kind fibs now." "I sha'n't, but you don't understand." "Well, Claire, it doesn't matter, as I said. What is it to me what you do or don't do, so long as you bring me face to face with more truth?" She thought he was telling her that he cared nothing for her. She did not blame him, yet there was a tiny streak of pride that said, "At least Philip finds me worth while." "It is simply my own salvation that is involved," Lawrence went on. "Well, I hope you find it," she said simply. "I must find it to live," he answered. "And how do you propose to find it?" "I don't know. I wish I did." "You might find it, as you once said, in creative work." "No, that isn't a salvation. I must have a platform from which to work. Don't you see that, Claire?" "I don't understand anything about it." "Pardon me, I didn't intend to force this upon you." "That isn't what I mean, Lawrence." Her eyes were moist. "What I meant was that you live above me entirely." "Nonsense," he said wrathfully. "You talk like a silly girl, Claire." "Do I? Well, I am perhaps less worth while than you think." "Oh, I guess not," he returned carelessly. She covered her face with her hands. "I know you are worth all that I think you are," he continued. "But I am afraid that just now I am too interested in my own salvation to think of you at all correctly." "Yes," she observed wearily. She was thinking of Philip as he had comforted her that morning, and his tenderness, compared to this cold statement from Lawrence, seemed attractive beyond measure. She admitted that all hope of Lawrence's loving her was dead, and she said to herself: "It is what I wanted. I can go back to my husband." But she did not want to go back to Howard. She received this discovery calmly. She would never go back. But why shouldn't she? She could not tell for certain. She thought it was because she had found herself unworthy, but deep within her was the knowledge that she no longer loved him. It would be useless to go back to him in any event. He could never be the same to her after hearing of her long months with this blind man in the wilderness. What months they had been! She thought them over, day by day, and she saw what might have been a great joy sink, after a glimpse, into utter darkness. Before her she saw the endless gray years beside Philip. Yes, she would stay with him. At least he loved her, and she could help him. If she did not love him, what of it? She would be an able wife to him. She could keep him from ever knowing that her heart was away with Lawrence, who would be back in the world at home and have forgotten her. "Claire!" Lawrence was speaking. "We have certainly reaped a strange harvest from our months of sowing in the wilderness." "Yes." "Whatever brought it about?" "I don't know." "Perhaps it was fate, that you should teach me where I stand in life." "Perhaps." "And perhaps you, too, will find that I have been of some value when we are separated." "It may be." "I wish things might have gone differently." "They didn't." "No, and they can't. Well, let them be as they are." "I guess we'll have to, Lawrence." A few minutes later, when she looked at him, he was asleep. CHAPTER XV. UTTER EXHAUSTION. Claire rose and slipped quietly to her own bed. All the aching pain of her proposed future came over her with its dirty sordidness. She could never stand it, she thought, and clenched her teeth. Well, it was not necessary. When Lawrence was gone, there was the lake. That would be her way out of it all. No one need ever know. The thought of death seemed very sweet to her. Philip came in, saw Lawrence asleep, and stole across the room to peep in at her. She met his glance. "I beg your pardon," he murmured. "Never mind," she answered dully. "Come in if you like." He hesitated, then stepped through, and let the curtain fall behind him. "May I sit here?" he asked, sitting on the edge of the bed. "Why not?" Her voice was colorless. "Only please speak softly. Don't wake Lawrence." "He'll feel better after his sleep, I think." "I hope so." He sat looking down into her dark, clouded eyes. There was something so tragic, so sad, and so submissive in them that he was filled with utter tenderness. "Claire," he whispered, "what is the matter?" "Nothing. I'm quite well." "You look absolutely desolate." "I don't especially feel so." "Are you happy?" "I don't know." He stooped over her, studying her face. She did not move, only her deep, dark eyes looked up coldly into his. He took the hand which she did not draw away, and whispered: "Claire, let me make you happy." She did not answer. He bent nearer. Her eyes did not shift from his, she saw that he was going to kiss her, but she did not move. If the whole world had come crashing down upon her, she could not have made the slightest effort to escape. He pressed his lips against hers. She did not return his kiss, but she did not protest. He slipped his arm around her waist and drew her up. Still she made no objection. He held her more closely, kissing her again and again. She remained impassive, unable to summon sufficient willpower to resist. Besides, had she not decided to be this man's wife? He was pouring into her ears short, whispered words of endearment, giving his love free rein. "Claire--Claire," he whispered passionately, "you do love me! Say you love me!" "Oh, must I say that?" she asked languidly. He laid her head back on the pillow tenderly. "Why shouldn't you?" he demanded. "You do, or you wouldn't let me act this way. Oh, Claire, isn't that true?" "Doesn't your own heart tell you, Philip?" She could not lie easily. "Yes, of course. I just wanted to hear you say it, dear." "Why?" "Because--because it means so much to me." "How does it mean any more than my unresisting lips?" She wanted to be fair to Philip. Would he want a wife without love? He looked at her, puzzled by her calm question. "Because, dear, it would mean that you put your seal on our divine betrothal." "I gave you my lips, you held me in your arms, doesn't that mean love to you?" "Claire, why do you talk that way?" "Why shouldn't I? Isn't it true?" "Yes, but you--you seem so unlike the woman you are." "Oh, I see. But you haven't told me fully why you wanted me to say I loved you." He stood up nervously and moved a few paces away, but the patient, self-reproachful gaze in Claire's eyes brought him back again. "Why talk of that at all, dearest?" he whispered. "We have each other. Isn't that enough?" "Perhaps not. You asked me to say it, you know." "Yes, but I don't care. I won't plague you. I know you do love, me." He kissed her again and then looked at her. Her lips had been cold. "What is the matter, Claire? Don't you love me? Is that why you wouldn't give me your word?" It was coming at last. How could she make Philip see, and yet be fair to him, too? "I don't know what you mean by love." Her voice was carefully toneless. Philip's eyes lighted. "Don't you want me here beside you? Don't you warm to my kisses? Isn't there an awakened tenderness in you at my touch? Isn't there, dearest?" Claire's hands moved nervously up and down the edge of the comforter. "If I should stay here with you, that would be the highest proof that I loved you, wouldn't it?" "What else?" He looked at her, hope giving his face a renewed glow. Was that all that love meant to him? "Is that what your years of thought have taught you?" she said aloud. "Why, yes, Claire, the return of passion for passion, of warmth for warmth, of tenderness for tenderness, must be the last test, mustn't it?" Despite her resolution her eyes narrowed ironically. Philip started, and stared at her. "Would you ever be jealous of my husband?" she asked, slowly. His head dropped. "No--and yes. Of course, I wish he hadn't been your husband, but we can't help what fate has decreed." He raised his eyes, and then suddenly he smiled. "Claire, is it because of him that you are unwilling to tell me you love me?" he asked softly. "I think I can understand. You'll have to be freed from him in some way, and we must be married, of course." "I am free from him. To him, I am dead. Isn't that enough?" "Yes," he answered judiciously, "if your own conscience is satisfied." She smiled a little, her eyebrows lifting in amusement. "Oh, my own conscience dictates my every act, Philip." "I know it does," he agreed, earnestly. "But your lips were cold to my kiss." He bent over to test the truth of his remark. "Do you forget Lawrence so easily?" Claire raised a hand over her face. "Certainly I cannot." "I beg your pardon," Philip said, rising hastily. "Of course he is to be remembered. We will wait until we are alone to talk of our future." "Yes," she said. "I should prefer that greatly." He touched his lips to her forehead tenderly, then stepped silently into the room beyond. She heard him as he moved quietly to replenish the fire, and it seemed to her that he made enough noise to echo from the mountains across the lake. She must think her situation through. She was studying the look she had read on Philip's face, and was angry with herself, yet she could not help thinking of it and its meaning. Suddenly she remembered the same expression on her husband's face, and she shuddered. She had thought it beautiful then, why not now? And why should she be so contemptuous when probably the same look had been in her own eyes when she had raged at Lawrence because he had not taken her in his arms. Philip was sitting out there beyond the curtain dreaming ecstatically of the days when they would be alone in the cabin, and she smiled ironically. After all, there was but one way out. He would find little comfort in her ghost, and her drowned body would scarcely fire him to passion. She rose and slipped out into the room. Lawrence was still asleep. She did not even glance toward Philip because she foresaw his look of proprietorship. She went straight to Lawrence, and bending over him as if to arrange something about his blanket, she whispered softly: "Beloved, when I am alone with him, I shall be more with you." Philip came and stood beside her, his hand resting lightly on her shoulder. "It looks like a serious fever," he said softly. Claire listened to Lawrence's breathing and felt his temperature. She stood up, gray with anxiety. "I'm afraid for him," she said, and there was that in her voice which Philip did not understand. They ate their supper in silence. Claire glanced at Philip occasionally and found in his eyes the anticipated look of tender ownership. She let him slip out of her mind while she thought again of the afternoon when Lawrence had declared his creative principle. How dearly she would love to help him, to have him model his statue of her. He had said that she was savage and elemental underneath her polish. He had known, then, all the time. What a man he was! If only she knew how to find his love, to reawaken it. But no, he would never forget. Well, he would not have been able to care for her, anyway, she was so utterly sensual despite all her training in culture. He would want a more spiritual woman to fire his imagination to do great work. She tried to imagine what sort of woman would be best for his wife. Lawrence stirred restlessly. She rose and went quickly to the bed. He was still asleep and she stood looking down at him. In her heart was a great tenderness and a great fear. What if he should die? Memories of their days in the woods swept over her in waves of love. Abruptly she turned to Philip and said quietly: "Philip, until I am your wife you must not touch me again." He looked up, startled, then smiled. "I understand, my dear," he said, "I will not." She sat down at the table to wait for Lawrence's waking. It was late when he did, and immediately they realized that he was worse. Claire gave him some hot soup made from dried meal and helped Philip get him undressed and into bed. "I'll put some blankets here and sleep on the floor beside him," Philip whispered. "I don't in the least mind, and I can help him if he wants help during the night." "Thank you," Claire said gratefully. She felt indebted to this man for every kindness shown Lawrence. Long before morning she was aroused by the sound of movements out there in the room. "What is it?" she called softly. "I am looking for something in which to heat water," came Philip's voice. She scrambled out of bed, drew on a few clothes, and went out. Lawrence was tossing on his bed and breathing heavily. She set to work heating the water herself, and sent Philip back to his blankets. There was a pleasure in doing this nursing for Lawrence. She felt glad that hers was the chance to care for him. "You're to have the best nursing a sick man ever got, Lawrence," she said, stooping over him tenderly. He smiled faintly and whispered: "Good, Claire." "You'll be well so quick you won't remember being ill." "I know," he murmured huskily. "What do you know?" she asked eagerly. "I know, it's natural for you, this kindness." "Is that all you know, Lawrence?" "About all, Claire. About all, yet." "Why do you say 'yet'?" "I haven't thought it out yet." "What, Lawrence?" "My platform, my work-bench for the future." She laughed, a little sadly. "You would better stop thinking about that for a day or so, wouldn't you?" "Perhaps. I can't, though." She drew up a chair and sat beside him. "I'm going to become a regular guard, and if you don't sleep and let thinking wait, I'll scold dreadfully." He tossed uneasily and turned toward her, his cheeks brilliant with fever. "I like to hear you scold, Claire," he said. "I shall go my limit." She rubbed her cool hand across his forehead for answer. When he at last slept, she continued to watch by his side, rocking slowly in her chair. It was peace for her to sit there and dream. There was rest from her ceaseless questionings, and it was welcome rest. CHAPTER XVI. THE QUESTION ANSWERED. During the days that followed Claire's attitude grew into one of motherhood. She watched over Lawrence for the least thing she might do, the least promise of returning health. There were times when he raved in delirium, and she listened with a swelling heart. One morning he began suddenly talking of himself. In broken sentences, shapeless phrases, half finished thoughts, he unfolded a strange tale. Claire was glad that Philip was away at work with his traps. She sat beside Lawrence, her hands clasped, and did not miss a word. "You see," he began one day without preliminaries, "you see, I wasn't just given the best of chances. That was the beginning of it all. I wasn't fairly treated." She tried to comfort him into sleep, but he did not know she was talking to him and went on earnestly with his unconscious revelation. "The whole business was a squalid sort of thing banked by mountains so grand in their rugged strength that I never got used to the dirty, dusty little half-civilized town there on the plateau. Even as a child I felt the intolerable difference between the place and its surroundings. Men ought to be better up there, but they aren't. They just magnify faults with the bigness of the hills around. Lots of it was romantic, lots of it ought never to be lost, the frank freedom, the vital living, the joy of uncertain victory over the dirt of the mines. It made men wild, wild to the last degree, that ever possible stumbling into gold, pure, glittering gold. Why, I saw it as a kid, shining like stars all over the side of the tunnel. It made even the children mad, I think. When I modeled rude little figures out of the red clay, I was always on the outlook for a possible gold-mine." He laughed, then went on seriously. "I didn't have the chance to grow up learning things gradually. There was no dividing-line between vice and virtue, all of it spread out there, street behind street, in a glow of abandoned riot. Even virtue flashed with a loose frankness that deceived a growing boy. It was a grand drama. Fifty thousand mad men and women!" She looked at him in amazement. This was something beyond her knowledge. What was it all that he was talking about? "There was Josey; she didn't know. I didn't. We saw love played with in hilarious open passion. We thought it was the thing to do. Children oughtn't to see it quite that way." Claire felt guilty, but he stopped and when he began again he was on a different line of old memories. "Why, when I sold papers down on the main street I could see the girls of the district standing around, one block below, in their business regalia. I thought at first they were angels." Claire sat in wonder and listened. "The first time I ever went down there I was eight. Eight years old, and one of them called me from the open door of her house. When I stepped to the door, she was coming down a stairway, her white dress open and spread like wings at either side of her naked body. I was sure she was an angel out of my Sunday-school book. I could scarcely take the dime she gave me. I never forgot her kissing me and patting my head when I stared so at her." Claire felt a strangely tender pity for the little chap she was seeing now in her imagination. "And the fighting, dirty, freckled sons of those women--they kept me hard at it, keeping the money I got. After that day, I went down there often. Traded a paper with a golden-haired angel for a box of cigarettes, the first I ever owned. It was great, wonderful, to have her cigarettes. I smoked them with a sense of reverence. "Wright and I played hooky, and the girls hid us all day in their shacks, played with us, teased us about sex, and taught us things we oughtn't to have known. Poor old Wright! They sent him to the pen for burglary after I had been gone years and was blind. I wonder if I'd have followed him. Most likely would. "And, oh, the hills! There was old Pisga, pined to its cone point, and a race-track, with a saloon, at its foot. I ran away out there once at a big Fourth of July barbecue. It rained like the devil and I lounged in the bar with jockeys and sporting girls, listening to their ribald talk. "I don't know--a street urchin in a camp, that was all I was. If I got licked, and I did, I was a coward for years and had to give up my pennies. I used strategy, cunning, because I was afraid to fight till I whipped Red. That made a difference. If the old fellow I liked so hadn't given Red a quarter to lick me, I'd have been a coward yet. It made me so mad I licked Red." Lawrence laughed again merrily. "That started me fighting, and I fought daily without provocation. Dirty, scaly fisted little rat, whose stockings sagged around his shoes, fighting for money in the saloons! The men liked me, too. All of them called me their kid. I used to stand big-eyed and watch the faro-table stacked with gold. There were days, too, when I went out alone over the hills. I was ashamed of my little figures and afraid lest the boys find my mud-pies, as Red had called a tiny dog that fell out of my pocket in a fight. "One day in an electric storm I saw a man and his horse killed by lightning. I was awed, and electricity became my god. I worshiped it like a little heathen. I even bought penny suckers and stuck them up in the ground where the lightning played in stormy weather. "It always seemed that the only things about the whole camp that fitted with the hills were that girl in white and an old mountaineer who fought with his fists alone against a gang of drunks. I don't know why. They just belonged." He stopped and lay a long time in silence. Claire thought over what he had said, and her heart went out to this man as if he were still the little gamin of the hills. "Poor little chap," she murmured aloud. Lawrence half raised himself in bed, talking again, and she was obliged to push him back. "It was all paradise, though, compared to that school where the Women's Club sent me. I didn't want an education. Freedom was taken from me. I was chained with discipline. I had seen too much and I told the other marveling boys. They talked, and I was punished as a degenerate little villain. I couldn't see why. That first winter was hell. They all misunderstood me, and I them. I ached for my mountains again, and when they sent me to the camp for the summer I whooped for joy. "I must have been thirteen at that time. The men in camp paid the Widow Morgan to keep me through the summer. She had a daughter seventeen or thereabouts. Georgia had curly hair and blue eyes. She didn't pay much attention to me at first. I didn't care. "Then one night the widow went off to a lodge-meeting and left us alone. Pearly and the gang came around and began throwing rocks at the house and demanding that Georgia let them in. I was furious, and she was nearly scared to death. She got her mother's pistol and asked me to shoot it. I took it and, opening the door, fired into the night. The gang slunk off, but Georgia was still frightened. "We slipped out of our clothes in trembling silence and huddled together in her mother's bed. She was crying, and I felt very brave. I put my arms around her and comforted her. She became quiet by and by and slipped her arms around me. After that we found ourselves. "She said we were in love, and I guess we were. That night was the beginning of my rebellious manhood. Her mother abused us roundly for immoral little whiffits. I was put out, and after that the county kept me. Georgia hated me, for she said I was to blame. "I suppose that was all right, too, but it made me bitter against what seemed to me an unjust world. I went back to school, hating. I never stopped hating as long as I was there. It was misunderstanding from first to last. I never ceased rebelling against punishment for rebellion. "It was a hopeless snarl, but it made me what I was when I entered college, distant, sullen, and ferocious. My only joy was in my work, and I spent all my spare time in the studio. Then the second summer I shot off the gunpowder, and blindness came." Lawrence lay back silent, then began again. "After the accident it was a thousand times worse. I thought people didn't like me because I was blind. They only pitied and misunderstood. Misunderstood--that word might be my epitaph. It could certainly be placed over my childhood's grave. "It was in college that I started thinking. Thought out my plan of militant egoism. It seemed to succeed, but all the time I was afraid it was only pity that sold my work. You know, Claire, as you said, I've got to do it all over again. All of it, building a new platform, a new work-bench. I've got to allow for things. I've got to understand." In her tension, Claire walked the floor. Would he never stop? That glimpse into his life at the widow's--who was Pearly?--and what a tough little gang he must have grown up with! Poor boy! He did not talk much for a long time, then he kept repeating: "I must build a new work-bench, Claire. That's the thing to do." She felt at times that she must scream at him, then she would be all motherly tenderness. "Lawrence," she would whisper, "do it, my man. You can, my laddie." He tossed, and chided an unseen man or woman for having helped him through charity under the garb of admiration. He was misunderstanding again. He thought everything was charity, pity for his blindness, and he raved. She began to see that this sudden bitterness which poured from his lips was the outcome of years of sorrow, the product of a deep-burning fire to see the beauty his soul craved. "Lawrence," she cried, "God knows if I could I would give you my eyes!" She knew that he was consumed with the pain of his struggle to comprehend more beauty. Even exaggerating his hunger for sight, she wept beside him. Her whole soul yearned to help him, to give him more of the beauty which seemed the prime need of his nature. Sometimes he prayed for it, addressing Fate, Nature, Chance, anything, everything but God. After a silence that was beginning to frighten Claire, he began again. At first his words were indistinct, but as she leaned closer, they cleared of guttural sounds. She listened spellbound. "You see, I hadn't done my thinking with allowance for the whole of human character, Claire. That was what was wrong with me. I'm doing that now. I'm finding myself again. It is back with the beginning of things I must start. Back with the first squirm of life in the primordial mud. It's no use trying further back than that. No use at all. Back of that lies only conjecture. "There was existence, perhaps, inert unconscious existence waiting to become suddenly aware of itself, aware of its parts and its difference from other things. Well, existence struggling, dreaming of self-knowledge, found in a wriggling, oozing spot of protoplasm--that's the start of it all. Feeding without hunger, moving without knowledge to food, reproducing mechanically by division, living without instinct, without emotion, without death. For me, that must be the beginning. "Whether death came, or what it was--a long period without food, perhaps--that started this stuff to changing, I do not know. Maybe it was existence following the way of greatest pressure toward selfhood. Anyway, it started and began its journey. Up and up, out of the mud and ooze, into light and dry dirt. "The glory of light must have been a great thing then. Think of it, coming into light, out of wet, dark mud. I know what it would be better than you. Light, the first great discovery of life! It must have hastened growth--warmth, sunrays, heat, cold at night and dark again. The glory of it breaking at dawn over the squirming, groping blind existence of things! "God said let there be light, and there was light. "Existence demanding the thing it craved. Was that it, or existence finding light and learning to crave it? No matter--light, a thousand miracles of warmth and wonder! Growth was inevitable, Claire. "Then the craving learned by experience broke into new form. I don't know what it was; a two-celled bug, perhaps--only that it was craving that did it. Hunger and thirst after light. "Pain came at the very start of things. Wants unsatisfied drove with the scourge of hell, forcing eyes, ears, stomach, sex into being, and out of the squalor of it all, still goaded by incessant want, there heaved the gigantic scaly carcass of the dinosaur. Still unaware of things, but driven to move, to grow, to expand. Existence demanding more expression of its awareness of self. "The beast didn't know what it was. He only grew and grew and grew, till he spread his ugly, yearning life over hundreds of feet of ground. Eye and ear and touch and a peace of filled belly lay basking in the light, glorying in what they found. Life was good, riotously good, finding things, finding itself out. They fought, fed, killed, bred, all in the effort of existence to know. "What a blood-drenched chaotic struggle for self it was, Claire! "And so, on and on and on. Touch didn't satisfy the incessant taste for more knowledge, more life. Bodies rising like hills out of the marshes couldn't give the keen joy that existence craved for itself. "New things again: changed, altered products of the old, bearing in their frames the history, the memory of the old--it all came, and out of it at last, hunger-driven for more keen life, sprang a biped, hairy, tusked, savage, bloody, lustful, eager to live, live, live! "He was a glorious beast. In his flattened head that held the little bloodshot eyes were memory, products of the past, things that harked back for confirmation of present things. He had instincts--that's what they are, instincts, memories of past sufferings--that whipped the organism to go on into keener living. He was sexed, he was hungry, he was vicious, he slept and ate, he bred consciously, carrying on the eager shout within his being for more, more of life. More of existence aware of itself! "If he killed, he gloried in the hot blood that drenched his hairless nose, and he learned to laugh through the pleasure of a filled belly. He learned to cry when he went hungry. Tears came, and emotions, a more specialized instinct. "He was learning something else, too. But pain still whipped him on, filled him with fear of non-life, and he grew cowardly. Nature had created a new thing, a brain, a specialized mass of cells that can comment, realize, criticise, warn, appreciate, choose better food, get it easier, help to conquer and promote life; the biped used this new thing to understand why he ran from the fingers that clutched at him in the dark and he became afraid. If it brought him new pain, it also brought him new pleasure. It was a great toy that could be used to enjoy oneself with. "It can have the joy of bodily sensations and then recall them, study them, comment on them, on its own instincts, its own memories. It can dream of ways for procuring fuller life, and put the dreams into any desired shape. Man struts from his jungle, laughing aloud, with lust for life and joy at his fulness thereof. But all the while, pain, the darkness, the still inert unconsciousness in existence that oppresses and drags back into its own dead inertness, is laughing still more heartily. "Everywhere it checks, but man in his egotism forgets that he is a slave, bound and hampered, and boasts himself master. Death sweeps in, lightning kills, thunder crashes over him, and filled with fear, with something bigger than he can grasp, he falls upon his knees, and cries, 'God!' "Then begins the mess, the tangled, detestable, bloody, dirty, riotously glorious, sublime mystery that is me. Me and you, Claire. Here we are." Claire leaned over him, her breath suspended in her eagerness. "Me, the man, specialized, sex-specialized, made to record, to enjoy, to remember, to create, and to die at last from sheer wearing out myself seeking life. "And you, you the woman, deeper, more vitally sexed, more complete in your memory of the past, more true in your record of it, less a sport, more a true seeker and knower of life--you, the embodiment of it all, memory, instinct, fear, passion, tenderness, hate--cunning, strong, wise, far-seeing, and altogether mistress of the whole brute world, mistress of everything in life and destiny save death. You, too, worn out by struggling to live more fully, but not until your lust for life has sent children out to carry on the struggle. "Oh, Claire, it is you the woman, demanding at any cost that your child live, who gives us our great knowledge, our beauty, our selfishness, and our strident sex, our pain." Claire caught her breath and sobbed: "Lawrence, Lawrence!" "Yes," he went on, "that is the end of it all. I see it now. You, unknown to yourself, demanding your child, stung to fear of death without it here in the wilderness, you love me--I know it, you love me. And I--I love you. It was that which drove you to speak as you did. I see. I love you!" She sank down on the pillow beside him. In her heart was a great relief which carried her away in a flood of tears. Lawrence talked on unheeded by her. He had made everything clear, and she was utterly happy. When Philip came in he found her sitting quietly, in her eyes a deep, calm peace that filled him with wonder. He smiled at her, thoughtfully, and remarked: "Well, Claire, you look happier than you have for months." "I am," she said simply. They did not carry on the conversation. He was satisfied that it was love for him which made her so distant, and he was content to wait until she should be his wife. He sat by the fire, watching her earnestly, and she was too deep in her new-found joy even to think of him or of her promise to him. TO BE CONCLUDED NEXT WEEK. Don't forget this magazine is issued weekly, and that you will get the continuation of this story without waiting a month. Claire by Leslie Burton Blades THE BLIND LOVE OF A BLIND HERO _BY A BLIND AUTHOR_ This story began in the All-Story Weekly for October 5. CHAPTER XVII. ANGLES OF A TRIANGLE. It was well into April before Lawrence was able to walk again. His convalescence had been slow, and he was still very weak. They had planned to start out by the end of April, but they were compelled to postpone the journey until the middle of May. Philip was fired with impatience. He wanted to get out to a priest and be married to Claire. She, on her part, was glad of the delay. She dreaded the hour when she should have to tell Philip that she would not marry him. Her joy in her love for Lawrence was too great, however, to allow for much thought about the matter. She looked back upon her yielding to Philip as upon a terrible nightmare, but she still liked him and could not bring herself to limit the intimate ways which had sprung up between them. He did not imagine, therefore, that there had been any change in her. Claire had never told Lawrence of what he had said during his illness, but her treatment of him was very different from what it had been before. He had come out of his illness with a calm assurance of his future, and he knew that he loved Claire. He did not know her feeling, but as soon as he should be well he meant to tell her of his love once more. The days passed in quiet serenity. Outside the cabin the plateau flowed under the pines into green and white and gold with dark patches of blue flowers that filled Claire's heart with song. The lake was open and glistened in the warm sun, while fish leaped in it, sending up sparkling rainbow drops. Claire took to wandering along the shore with Lawrence or Philip, or both, talking gaily all the while. She never mentioned her husband, it was only of their return to civilization that she spoke and of the great time the three of them would have in celebration. They laughed agreement with her words. As Lawrence grew more and more like himself there came a time, however, when Philip could not but see that Claire was giving the artist a tenderness, a sweetness of companionship, and a carefully guarded joy which he had never known. It was impossible for him to say to himself longer that it was only her nursing manner. He took to watching her eyes, and again and again he caught them filled with a deep light which they had never held for him. He now realized that he had always feared Claire might love Lawrence, that he had feared it even on the day of her confession. A fierce desire of possession gripped him, and he swore to have this woman as his wife, in spite of Lawrence, in spite of herself, if need be. It was this last frame of mind which gained in constancy until he became a danger to Claire's happiness. She saw it in his dark expression, and her heart cried out against herself for the time of weakness. Then a great doubt would assail her. Lawrence had never spoken of love since he had regained his consciousness, and she wondered if, after all, his talk had been mere delirium, without basis in his normal mind. She determined to find out, and then tell Philip the frank truth. She was sure that he would receive it as a gentleman should, and let her moment of weakness pass forgiven. She went over all their experience together, and she came to feel that, in any case, she could never live with him. Even though Lawrence did not care, she told herself, she could go out into the world and find her place. One evening she came into the house and found Philip alone, sitting darkly over his book. She felt sorry for him, and, wanting to leave him friendly memories, if she could, she walked quietly over to him and laid her hand on his shoulder. He looked up and smiled faintly, though his face remained clouded. "Philip," she said, "you look worried!" "I dare say I do," he returned quietly, but there came into his eyes a fierce light that frightened her. "Why should you?" she asked. "Claire!" He stood up and faced her. "I do not know what you think of Lawrence. I do not know what he thinks of you. I do not care. I will tell you one thing. You lay in my arms yonder and said that you would be my wife. If you did not mean it"--he hesitated--"then you are scarcely the type of woman to be allowed to live. Don't lead me to suspect that such is the case." Claire gasped, realized her situation, and for the moment was carried beyond all power of speech. She sank in a chair and stared at him. Then, suppressing her rising fear, she said calmly: "Philip, would you have me yours against your will?" His eyes flashed fire at her. "Would you say you wanted to be mine and not mean it?" "No," she faltered, "I--I might have meant it then." "Does your heart change with the passing breeze?" She was feeling panicky. Her throat was dry and hot. "I hope not," she said faintly. "Bah! Does it?" he demanded. "No," she said, even more faintly. "Very well. You lay in my arms there and told me you would be my wife. Years ago, before you came into my life, another woman played with me. You shall not. I do not know what has happened to bring about the change in you. It cannot alter my will. You are mine by your own lips. It is best for us both that I hold you to your promise. When we go out of this place to a priest you shall become my wife. You dare not be untrue to yourself!" She was afraid to answer him. His dark, threatening face told her that he was beyond reason, and she sank wearily back in her chair. In her heart she was determined never to be his, but her lips played her false. Despite her will they whispered submissively, "Very well, Philip. I understand." He laughed aloud. "What in Heaven's name made you act like that, Claire?" he asked, once more kindly and agreeable. "A woman's whim!" she said, and hated herself for saying it. "I don't understand women," he laughed softly. "Neither do I." It was Lawrence's voice. He had come in, just in time to hear the last words. "Nor men, either--except in one thing." "What is the one thing?" asked Claire eagerly. "That, given a normal, healthy mind, they will sacrifice all their idols for life. Life is the one eternally insistent thing." Philip chuckled. "You are yourself again, I see." "Yes, and stronger than ever in my faith," said Lawrence, sitting down. "I know the price I would pay for life. It is the price every human being would pay, if demanded." "What is that price?" Philip asked. "The whole of one's faith in God and man!" "Nonsense!" Philip spoke curtly. "I would die before forfeiting a dozen ideals I hold dear!" "Would you?" Lawrence looked at him quizzically. "Would you sacrifice your own life before you would the love of your sweetheart, for instance, if you had one?" The conversation was similar to those which they had had months before, but the fire was nearer the surface now. "Yes." Philip's answer came swiftly. "Then you are a sex-maddened mountaineer!" "And you are talking like the beast you are not. I know you do not believe that." "I know I do. I would only die for a woman if she were my life." "But any real love finds her so." "Folly! I find my work, my future, my dream of a single immortal statue more my life than any woman!" Lawrence exclaimed. "I wonder if you really do," Claire mused, half to herself. "Yes," Lawrence insisted, "although she might be necessary to that statue. At least I believe she might--and I would feel sure of it if I wanted her badly enough," he ended amusedly. "That merely means that you are still utterly selfish!" said Claire. "Yes, I am." Lawrence was thoughtful. "It is a paradox, I am so selfish that, although I would sacrifice myself to the last degree for a person I loved, yet I would all the time feel that I was a fool, that I was doing an absurd thing when life was so good." "I see," Claire observed. "And I know I would do the same." "I would do it," Philip said, "but I would not feel a fool. It would seem to me right." Claire looked straight into his eyes. "You would not, Philip," she declared softly. "Your own happiness would come first--and you know it." The Spaniard's gaze shifted, and there was silence in the cabin. When he looked up his eyes had changed their expression. "Yes," he agreed steadily, "I admit it. Hereafter I mean to have what I want from life at any cost." "Yet you will go on talking ideals," Lawrence mocked. "Yes--and thinking them, too." "While Lawrence will make the sacrifice and go on talking his selfishness," Claire added. Both men laughed constrainedly. "And I," Claire continued, "if it is necessary, will lie to preserve my will, and, having it secure, will use it to obtain what I want." "We are at last three delightfully frank, insufferable, unpleasant, and very natural, likable human beings!" Lawrence laughed. "And on that basis we will work out our fates," murmured Claire. "We will do just that," Lawrence answered gaily. "Be they good or bad, we will meet our futures with perfect self-knowledge," contributed Philip. "Then most likely they will be bad," Claire added with conviction. They gave up talking, and each abandoned himself to his own reflections. In the minds of the two men these thoughts assumed widely differing words, though they were the same thoughts. Philip was garbing his impulses, desires, and determinations in clothes that furnished his habitual mental wardrobe. With their marriage, he thought, Claire would learn the real Philip. He would treat her with such deference, such tender respect, and such devotion that she would see the wisdom of her choice. He would prove to her that sex mattered little, was altogether secondary. It was her great companionship, her dear thoughtfulness, her charming personality that he loved. Respect, first of all: happy married life depended on respect; then, common interest, friendship between two human beings, and, last and least important, that wonderful emotion springing out of the divine God-given reproductive life of both. Lawrence was thinking very different words to the same end. He thought of her as his mate, his comrade, and his equal. He admired her brain, smiled at the thought of their hours of intellectual pleasure, dreamed of her as the stimulus to creation which her mind should help shape into master work. He loved her beauty and her measureless well of bubbling energy. What a help she could be to him! She was the greatest of all women; he wanted her, needed her. Could he realize his dream? That was the point. Well, no matter, or, at least, no use in speculating. He would try. If she were willing, what a life of joy and accomplishment lay before them! If not, he had lived alone until this time, and he could continue to live alone. Meantime, was Philip the barrier that would keep him from her? He hoped not. He did not believe that she loved Philip. If she did, he would be a good loser and wish her joy. His heart ached at the thought. But, after all, one doesn't die over such things, and he would recover. "I'm going to get the supper," said Claire somewhat abruptly. She rose and set to work. Here the thoughts of the two men flowed into an identical channel. It was certainly good to sit and listen to her. That sound would be very agreeable, indeed, at the end of a day, in one's own home. As for her husband, he was out of the question. If Claire went back to him, she might find him married or in love again, unwilling to receive her after her long months with two men in the wilderness, suspicious of such a thing being possible without more intimacies than he would care to overlook. No, her husband did not matter. She would be justified and safe in remarrying. Of course, not safe if she returned to America, but that she would not do. At this point their thoughts diverged. Philip was seeing Claire as the continued inmate of his cabin. Lawrence was painting a delightful mental picture of Claire as the ever-present fairy of his studio in some South American town, or perhaps in Paris. He preferred France; it was a land of more brilliance, more freedom, and certainly much more appreciation of the things in which they were interested. Besides, his work would carry more prestige in the world if it came from Europe. He thanked the memory of old Roger Burton, of Cripple Creek, and he rejoiced that he would be able to give Claire the home to which she was entitled. He smiled as his thoughts went back to the mines and the dirty little newsboy an old man had befriended. Burton's quarter to Red had kept Lawrence, the boy, from becoming a coward, and Burton's slender provision for the college graduate would now insure happiness for Lawrence the man. Many times before he had laughed scornfully at the untouched interest from the miner's bonds. He could make his own living. But now there would be Claire. The old man would have been glad to see his protégé happy in the love of such a woman. Meanwhile Claire was doing her work automatically. In her mind there was pleasure at the thought that Lawrence was listening to her movements. But she was filled with a dead weight that seemed likely to break her down with its dreadful pressure. Vaguely she wished that she had never seen Philip, even that she had never seen Lawrence, or that she had perished with him in the mountains. How had she ever placed herself in the position she was now in? She had come by the way of a terrible road and, looking ahead, she could see nothing but sadness, anguish, and a life of dull discontent with Philip--that or death! Lawrence had had time and opportunity since his recovery to declare himself, and he had not done so. She had had time and opportunity to tell him frankly of her own feeling, but she had not done so. She did not know why. Now she could not. Philip had given her to understand his desperate determination to marry her, and, after all she had said and done, she had no right to refuse him. If she told him the truth he might kill Lawrence or her, or both of them. These tragic idealists, she exclaimed to herself, what a tangle they can make out of life! Oh, what a noose she had managed to fasten around her own neck! Would the problem never be settled, one way or the other? What would she do if Philip tried to force her to marry him? Kill him? Was she, then, so primitive, so savage, so much the slave of her own desires that she would slay to gain her end? She remembered Lawrence's talk when he was ill, "We killed those days, Claire, killed because we wanted fuller life, fuller knowledge, fuller expansion of our own vital existence; we were gropers after more light!" "Supper!" she said dully, and then sat down. They ate in silence save for the occasional necessary word, and afterward went immediately to bed. Claire soon fell asleep, with the last thought in her mind--to live as she wanted to live she would pay any price! CHAPTER XVIII. THE ROMANTIC REALIST. It was the 1st of May when Lawrence at last found himself alone with Claire and decided to speak. The instant he thought of declaring himself he was surprised at his own mental state. A panic seized him, his heart beat unsteadily, his mouth grew dry, and he could think of nothing to say. They were out on the lake shore. Philip had left them on his last long trip across the plateau before starting for civilization. The warm spring wind blew around them, laden with scent of pine and flower. At their feet the water rippled and cooed little melodies. Claire sat very still, gazing wistfully at the man beside her. Her heart was a lead weight, and her brain ached with the strain of her problem. It was late afternoon. All day she had wandered with Lawrence in comparative silence, wishing that he would speak, and observing that something troubled him. Finally she moved uneasily, took her hand from her cheek, and said half-dreamily, "You aren't a bit talkative." He gulped, swallowed, and laughed. "I'm too busy trying to think of something to say," he told her amusedly. "Oh!" She was provoked in the extreme. "Have I ceased to suggest conversation? You are very tired of me, then." "Quite the contrary. So far from it, you paralyze my tongue." "How complimentary!" she said. "Then I suppose your excessive arguments with Philip denote your weariness of him?" "They do." "I suppose, if you were really fond of a person, you would never talk at all?" "Perhaps. I don't know but that you are right." She laughed gaily. "Lawrence," she said, "you are certainly amusing when you attempt to be flattering!" He grew warm and uncomfortable. "I wasn't trying to flatter. Can't you see that?" He was almost wistful. "I don't see it. No, if you weren't trying to flatter you were surely doing the unintended in a most intricately original manner." He shifted his position and did not answer. "Of course," she said, "although you aren't accustomed to flattering, you've taken to doing it almost constantly." "Well, why shouldn't I?" he asked curiously. "Why not, if you care to?" Her reply was as gentle as if she were a submissive object of his whims. He felt that now was the time to speak, but he could not bring himself to the point. The thought of his blindness killed all confidence. "Hang it all," he broke out, quite as if it were a part of their previous talk, "blindness certainly does rob one of his will!" She looked at him apprehensively. "I thought you had decided you were the master of that." "I had, but it seems I was mistaken." Claire laid her hand on his arm tenderly. Her eyes were dazzling. "Lawrence, you must master that, you know." "Why?" he said thoughtfully. "If I shouldn't, it would mean only one more human animal on the scrap heap!" "But you don't want to be there." "Of course not. No one does. I don't imagine any one chooses it." "If you go there it will be because you choose it." "I wish I saw things your way," he observed. "At times I feel as sure of success as if it were inevitable, and then suddenly down sweeps the black uncertainty, and I am afraid, timid, and unnerved." She looked at him sadly. "Don't you believe in your work, Lawrence?" "Yes, that is about all I do believe in." "Then what is the matter?" "It is that, after all, thousands of men have believed in their work to no avail. One can never know whether he is a fad or a real artist. It isn't only that, either. One's work, when it is his life, requires so much besides to make it possible. It is that which gives me the blue fear you see. I always imagine that the thing I want just then is absolutely essential to my better work. Perhaps it is. I don't know. I know only that I am persuaded that it is. Then I set about to get that thing and I fail." "But do you always fail?" Claire was unconsciously pleading her own cause. "Not always. Just often enough to scare me to death when the biggest need of my life seems just out of reach." "Nonsense, Lawrence," she laughed. "When you were sick you talked as if you could reach out and pull down the stars, if you needed them in an endeavor to complete your life." "Sometimes I think I could, then the reality of life comes crashing through the walls of my dream-palace, and, behold, I am standing desolate and abandoned, grasping at lights which are even too far away to be seen! I am clawing darkness for something I fancied I could reach, while, as far as I am concerned, it is clear out of space and time." She sat pensively looking across the lake. "Yet you keep on reaching, don't you?" "Yes--and no. I always wish I could. There are times, Claire, when I don't want to be a realist, don't want to face life as it is, when it seems too tawdry to be valuable just as it is; then I reach out into the night and cry, 'Let me be the maddest of dreamers, the wildest of idealists, a knight of fancy seeking the illusive dream!'" Claire laughed aloud as she said, "And don't you know, dear man, that that is just what you do become at times?" "I know it. That's the joke of it. All the while I mock myself for being a romancing idiot!" "What a state of mind!" she exclaimed. "It isn't pleasant. Then, worse than that, when I attain my star, I spoil it with too much scrutiny." She started. "What do you mean?" "Just that. I make a mess of it." "Still I don't understand." He thought for a moment, then said sadly: "Take the cherub I carved there"--he nodded in the direction of the house--"I was wild with creative fervor when I did that. I put into it a thousand little thoughts that flashed with imaginative fire. I dreamed things, felt things that should have made a masterpiece beyond all masterpieces, and at last the thing was finished. Still under the heat of enthusiasm, I felt of it, tested it, and found it good. Well, a week later, when the imaginative flame was gone, I went back and looked at it again. It was poor, cold, imperfect, not at all what it should have been. I dreamed a star and made a block of poor wooden imagery." "But you underestimate your work. To me the cherub is still a star." He laughed. "It is what others see of good in my work that makes me hope that sooner or later I will do the thing that will stand eternally a star of the first magnitude." "And you will, Lawrence," she said earnestly. "Perhaps." He was pensive. "Perhaps not. That is where the rest of life enters in. I want many things; they seem necessary if I am to attain my eternal star. I am afraid I shall never get them!" "Have you tried?" "No, I haven't the courage. If they should be beyond my grasp, if obtaining them, they should prove to be wrong and not the real things I need, after all, what then?" "I don't know." She waited to watch a little colored cloud float by, and then continued: "Isn't the real interest in life the game you play?" "I suppose it is, but it's hard on other people." "Why--and how?" "Suppose," Lawrence said slowly, "you were the one thing I thought I needed." Claire leaned toward him, her lips apart, her heart beating wildly. "Suppose I were sure of it, and set about to make you part of my life, well, if I succeeded and then"--he smiled sadly--"found that you were not the necessity, not the answer to my need, what of you? It would be an inferno for you, and none the less equally terrible for me! We couldn't help it. Under such circumstances you would be right in saying that I had been unfair. I don't know, certainly you would be right in charging your possible unhappiness to me." "Under your supposition, Lawrence," she answered evenly, "if you obtained my love, wouldn't it then be my game, my risk in the great gamble for deeper life? Wouldn't it be my mistake for having thought you were what I needed?" "What if you still thought you needed me after I was sure that I did not need you?" She shrugged her shoulders. "I am too fond of life and too eager to know its possibilities to let that hurt me long. Possibly I should weep, be cynical, maybe even do something desperate, but at last I would come up smiling, calm in the faith that my life was deeper, richer for the experience, and that yours was, too. Or if it proved that yours was not, I should be amused at the shallowness of the Claire that was, for having been so simple a dunce as to imagine that you were worth while. I should thank you for teaching the present Claire to forsake that shallow one, and should find you a rung on my ladder of life!" He laughed merrily. "You are strong in your faith, Claire." "Yes. This winter and you have made me strong," she answered. "I have made you strong in it?" "Yes. Last summer, when you dragged me out of the surf, I was full of a number of ideas I no longer possess." "But what have I done?" "You have lived stridently all your life." "Perhaps so. What of it?" "I see that is the thing most worth doing." "What will your husband say to such a doctrine?" "I don't know. I am not going back to him. We are not the same people we were a year ago, and he would no more love the present Claire than I should love the present Howard." The sky deepened from pink to crimson, but Claire's eyes were staring blankly on the ground. "Claire, what do you think is essential to great work?" "I don't know. To keep at it most likely." She was digging with a little stick in the grass. "Perhaps you're right," he agreed. "But sometimes I think it is a lot of other things; romantic wandering over the earth, a deep and lasting love, any number of such external factors." "You don't call love external, do you?" "I mean a permanent love," he laughed. "Oh, well, perhaps those are necessary, certainly they would be a help to you, they would be to any one. But, after all, even a woman isn't absolutely essential to a man in order that he create great art." "I think she is," Lawrence insisted. "Very well, perhaps she is, but"--Claire laughed skeptically--"I know that she is not the all in all, the alpha and omega, the 'that without which nothing,' that she is so often told she is by seeking males." "No," he agreed slowly, "in rare cases of great love that may be true, but in most cases it isn't." "It is more likely that what you, the abstract male, really mean is that you must have some woman as wife and housekeeper." "Perhaps that is so, although even that needs qualifying." "I know," she said, "but why not be frank about it both ways; that is precisely her situation as well as his. There ought to be less sentimental rubbish and more plain sense about all of it. Women would suffer less from shattered illusions, they would grow accustomed to reality, and be considerably less idiotic in their romantic caperings." "I admit it," Lawrence said, smiling; "and yet"--he paused--"I want to be the maddest of romanticists, I want to say those things to the woman I love, I want to think them about her, I want to feel them all, all those dear, false romantic deceptions. I do, in fact, even though my brain agrees with you." "So should I, and I would." Then she added softly under her breath, "I do." Lawrence turned a little toward her, his fingers gripping the grass in front of him. "Claire," he said slowly, "I--I want to say them, think them, believe them about and with you." She did not move. Over her there swept a great joy, and her thinking stopped. She was feeling all the dear things she had just condemned, and she looked at her lover. He was blind. He could not see what was in her face, and he was not sure that he interpreted her silence correctly. He was waiting, anguishing, for her answer. She realized then what it was he needed more than he himself knew. "Lawrence," she cried joyfully, slipping into his arms, "I know what you need, beloved!" He laughed exultantly as he showered kisses upon her eagerly upturned face. "I guess you do, sweetheart," he consented. "What is it?" She settled down with a sigh of content, her head against his shoulder, and announced, very much like a child saying what it knows to be wisely true: "You need a woman who is keen enough to think with you and be eyes for you, natural and unspoiled by conventional sham enough to be your heart's answer, self-willed enough to be herself and deny you and your selfishness, and, above all, mother enough to care for you as she would a child. I believe I am that woman, dearest boy!" He held her tight in his arms and smiled. "I not only think, I know you are." For a long time they sat in silence, dreaming, loving, enjoying, and caring nothing for all the rest of the world. At last Claire raised her head from his shoulder and whispered, "Lawrence, before I would be separated from you, I am afraid I would kill!" He chuckled merrily. "Good!" he said. "That sounds proper. So would I. We are alive because our ancestors killed to live, they fought to mate, so shall we, if need be." She remembered Philip and shuddered slightly. "What is the matter, Claire?" Lawrence drew her closer. She did not answer. She was wondering how to tell him about Philip, and afraid. "Are you filled with terror at the mere thought of murder!" he asked. She moved uneasily in his arms. "No, but I can't say I like to even think of such a possibility." "Don't, then. It isn't very likely to happen," he comforted. She remained silent, but her pleasure was not untroubled. Her whole impulse was to wait, but her brain kept demanding that she tell him now, and she gathered herself for the effort. "Lawrence"--she hesitated--"I--I have something I must tell you." "All right. Go ahead; but confessions never do much good." She drew away from him tenderly. "Because my whole being wants to be in your arms, I will not--not while I tell you," she said, sitting beside him. "I want you to hear and think without my body in your arms as a determining factor in your answer." "Very well. Go ahead. I promise to be an emotionless judge." "Can you?" she asked quickly. "No," he said, "but I will." They both laughed, and she nerved herself to talk. "It's about Philip," she said timidly. He started. "Don't tell me about him, Claire," he said. "It can't do any good, and it's hard for you, I see. Whatever you are or were to Philip doesn't matter to me in the least. The Claire of this morning wasn't my mate. It is only Claire from now on that counts, and she is not in any way bound to Philip for whatever may have occurred in the past." "Oh, I wish that were true!" she moaned. "It is true," he asserted. "But you don't understand. Let me go on, please." "Surely," he answered. "Say as much or as little as you wish." She told him then, falteringly, sometimes wondering at his calm, expressionless face as she talked. She was filled with dread, for he sat as still as death, without a word, without a change of expression to show her what he was thinking. She made many corrections to her explanation, and supplied bits of comment in an effort to discover herself how it all had happened. There was nothing of apology in her attitude, however, and she finally concluded with an account of that afternoon in her bedroom, and what she had said to Philip since that day. "Now," she said at last, "you know all about it. You can do as you please, of course. If you choose to go on, we will have to find some solution together. Philip will not take it easily. Of that I am sure. He is more than likely to become desperate." She waited. Lawrence did not move. His face was seriously thoughtful, and she was filled with a growing fear that made it harder and harder to wait for him to speak. When she could stand it no longer, she shook his arm. "Lawrence, why don't you say something?" she cried. He read the fear in her voice, and laughed caressingly, as he took her in his arms. "I thought you knew it wouldn't alter our futures," he said. "I was only trying to think out a just solution unpersuaded by your body in my arms." "Oh!" She laughed comfortably. He was making fun of her, and she was not averse to it. "It certainly looks as if Philip were up against a bad future," he went on, amusedly. "Philip!" she cried, startled. "Are you pitying him all this time?" "Whom else?" Lawrence demanded. "We don't need pity, do we?" "Oh, you selfish lover!" she chided. "I have been needing and do need it. Philip worries me." "I see," he mused. "Well, accept my condolences, and prepare to pass them on to Philip. Poor devil! When you and I are back in our world, he will indeed need pity." "Suppose he takes steps to see that I don't go back?" she chanced. "He can scarcely compel you to live with him." "He can, and he will. He isn't as civilized as he appears. If need be, he would keep me locked up here and make me his by force, or kill me. He told me so." Lawrence shrugged his shoulders. "Romantic raving for effect!" he exclaimed. "But if he should happen to try that, well, I think my argument might be as effective as his." "But how do you propose to stop him? I tell you, he is in earnest." Claire was insistent. "Why, in whatever way is necessary. If it is my life against his, I'll give him the best I've got." She looked at Lawrence in wonder. He was as calm as if he had been making small talk at a theater-party. "Can you plan it so--so carelessly, like that?" she asked. "Why not? I could hardly allow him to take you by force. I wouldn't choose a fight as a diversion, but once in, I wouldn't stop short of his life. And I wouldn't feel any compunction afterward, either." "Well," she said quickly, "it won't be necessary." "I think not." He smiled. "We need say nothing about our plans. Once we get into town, all the world is ours, and we can quietly depart, leaving Philip Ortez a very pleasant memory." They both laughed heartily. Neither of them allowed for that vast portion of human character which lies beyond the knowledge of the most keen-visioned. Claire was more familiar with the distinctly male phases of Philip than Lawrence--perhaps a woman always is--but they were too happy to give the matter any real consideration, and, after the fashion of all lovers, they shut out the third person from their little self-bound universe. The whole world seemed a friendly sphere whose entire action was merely to bring them together, and they were utterly oblivious to Philip and his new attitude. It seemed so impossible that anything serious could arise to separate them from each other. It was late when Philip returned, and he was instantly aware of the change in his guests. The old, serious silence was gone from Lawrence; he was not the speculative man to whom Philip was accustomed. His talk was light, pleasantly humorous, and very genial. He was, in short, the lover. Claire, too, shone with a new radiance. Doubt rearose in Philip's heart, and grew rapidly into suspicion. He became less responsive to their chatter. His dark eyes grew somber with misgiving, and love swelled into longing that made him feel sure that Claire was necessary to his life. Without her there could be no living for him. He wondered if she and Lawrence had found love. "If they have," he argued, "there can be but one explanation. Claire is unreliable, vicious, and dangerous." His aching desire to possess her did not lessen, however. It became deeper, in fact, with each succeeding thought of her as a wanton at heart, and he set his teeth over his will, assuring himself that all would be well when Lawrence was gone. He took to avoiding absences, and to watching furtively for some confirmation of his suspicion. Claire was instinctively cautious, and he saw nothing that could actually be construed against her. He was of that type of man whose love, burning into jealousy, does battle with ideals which stand against his suspicions and demand actual physical proof before retiring and allowing the beast to run riot. He knew no middle ground. Once he had seen that which would condemn Claire, he would be utterly savage. His soul anguished to bitterness at every thought against her purity and truth. He could not accept her as she was. His suspicion painted her black with the sticky ink of a morbid idealist, while his faith, rising from the same ideals, made her seem almost ethereal. His longing for her was an acute physical pain, and he never allowed his ideals to stop his romancing. He insisted that his desire be stated in masking phrases and deceiving glories of chivalrous prattle. He was so torn by his conflicting emotions and ideals that he was fast arriving at a state where his action would be that of a wounded beast at bay. He did not know and would not admit that his own distorted view of Claire was back of his own condition. True to his type, he carried this war in silence, and sought support for his fast-weakening ideals in argument. He was wise. Defend your faith if you would keep it glowing. CHAPTER XIX. THE LAST DISCUSSION. The time of their departure was at hand. There had been two days of intense packing of the food and clothing necessary for their two-hundred-mile walk. Now that was behind them, and after a short trip which Philip must take the following morning, they would be off for the ten or fifteen miles they hoped to cover that day. When night came they were overjubilant, and they sat before the cabin watching the lake as it shimmered in the moonlight. Claire was pensively silent, though her heart sang. She was dreaming out her days, painting them on the moonlit water, and she paid very little heed to the two men, though unconsciously her whole personality leaned toward Lawrence. What they were saying she did not at first know, but gradually her attention was caught and she listened earnestly with an ever-growing fear in her heart. She saw the deep fire that burned in Philip's eyes, and she realized that Lawrence was unaware of how his provocative, half-humorous ironies were stirring the volcano within the man who sat beside him. "No man has a right," Philip was saying, "to think of a woman in his house unless he can think of her as altogether trustworthy, pure, and beyond temptation. If he does think of her differently, he is a beast, and wants a mistress, not a wife." Lawrence laughed carelessly. "The average man wants both in one," he said. "Personally, so far as your talk about suspicion goes, who needs to think either way? I'm sure I don't. I'm quite content to live with a woman, giving and taking what we can enjoy together, and not asking that she limit her time and devotion to me. She may have various outside interests of her own. In fact, I would prefer that life should hold a separate work for her." "Oh, you do not care. You are too selfish to feel any responsibility for a woman's soul. I would feel depraved if I did not guard my wife's soul by my very faith in her." "Why should you guard her soul? Isn't the average woman intelligent enough to look out for herself? What she does, she does because she wants to, and for Heaven's sake, man, let her have the right to freedom of being." "But real freedom of being lies in her dependence on me as the head of the house," Philip protested. "If you happen to be the head of the house," Lawrence added jestingly. "But I would be the head of the house. It is my right and my duty." "Poor Mrs. Ortez, if there ever is one," Lawrence continued, joking. "She is to be guarded by a great, aggressive, possessing husband. What if she happens to want something you don't approve of?" "She won't. A good woman doesn't." "But suppose your woman isn't good, and does?" "I should have to explain to her her mistake." "And then when she says, 'But I don't regard it as a mistake, I think it was quite right,' what will you do?" "I wouldn't have a woman who would hold such views." "What is it you want for a wife, Philip? A brainless feminine body who is content to be your slave?" "I should be ashamed to speak of any woman I cared for in those terms. One doesn't marry a woman who can be thought of in terms of sex." "Perhaps 'one doesn't.' I would. I should want her to be very well aware of her exact physical potentialities, and to think enough about them to understand herself." "Then you would want an unwholesome wife, my friend." "Not at all. I want a natural one, that's all. Moreover," he added joyously, "I shall have one." Philip glanced at him quickly. Into his mind flashed the memory of Claire's words in the room that fatal afternoon. "I shall never marry such a woman," he declared, and added: "But I mean to have one whose devotion is so pure that even her talk to me of such things will be holy." Lawrence laughed heartily. "Philip," he said, still chuckling, "you seem to think we human beings are half supernatural and half stinking dirt. Why, in Heaven's name, don't you once see us as plain, healthy, intelligent animals?" "Because we're half gods, half beasts." "So I was once told by the son of an ancient mind whose farthest mental frontier reached A.D. 1123." Philip rose and faced Lawrence, then looked shamefacedly at Claire, and sat down again. "You think you are advanced because you are still unaware of anything but beasthood!" Lawrence grinned complacently. "I am always amused at the way men speak of beasts as if they were something base," he said. "'Beast' should not be a term of opprobrium. The average dog or elephant, for example, is fairly wholesome and quite naturally proper in his fulfilment of instincts. It is more than one can say for men. Yes, I am a beast, if by that you you mean a physical being; and if humanity ever does get anywhere in quest for a soul I suspect it will have to start from that very admission." "Of course"--Philip hesitated a little--"we are animals in that sense. But who can think of us as nothing more? Take Claire, for example. We both know her better than any one else. I could scarcely think of her as an animal, subject only to its instincts. Even allowing that she is a very intelligent animal, it isn't all or even the better part of her, any more than it is of any good woman." The speech was self-revealing, and Lawrence smiled. "Now, it is strange," he observed; "that is precisely the way I should think of Claire if I wanted to see her in the best possible light, as the most splendidly intelligent, healthy animal I ever knew." "You are more insulting than you intend. I am glad that you do not mean to be," Philip growled. "Tra-la-la. I shouldn't insult her for a good deal." "Yet your attitude is debasing," Philip retorted. "Oh, well, perhaps. She has my apology if she thinks so." "But you can't actually mean what you say," Philip went on. "Your attitude would lead you to make a cave of your home, and a mere lair of your bed." "Which, by the way, very elaborately arranged, and embellished with thousands of psychological phases, products of the most highly specialized part of me, is exactly what my home would be." "Well, I certainly should deplore your household." "Go as far as you like. It ought to be a fairly comfortable home, with its basis on frankness, oughtn't it, Claire?" Philip's eyes flashed. Claire hesitated, fearing lest she provoke him further, and said cautiously: "Yes, it ought to be based on frankness." "But frankness doesn't mean an attitude of mind like that," Philip protested. "What does it mean?" Lawrence asked. "It means an established order where love makes it possible for two beings to speak their thoughts freely one to the other," Philip said, with the air of defining infinity. "Does it? Well, if that is frankness by definition, I have known many women with whom I was in love, but neither they nor I knew it until this minute." Lawrence laughed. Philip flushed, shrugged his shoulders, and stood up. "I thank goodness I do not see things as you do," he said. "Even the parable of the Pharisee has its modern aspect," Lawrence murmured chucklingly. Philip stood looking moodily across the lake, and fortunately did not catch his words. "I think I shall walk a little," he said coldly. "I can't sleep until I have walked some of your conversation out of my soul." "Go to it," Lawrence said with a smile. "I didn't mean to corrupt you." "You didn't. You simply make me angry. I'm sorry, but you do." "Yes? So am I. However, it won't last much longer, Philip." Both men smiled at the thoughts that came with those words. "I think I shall go in," Lawrence went on. "I shall want sleep for the big start to-morrow." Philip looked hopefully at Claire. She rose with a sigh of weariness, pretending not to see him. "So shall I," she said. "Good night, both of you." She was gone into the cabin, and Philip looked disappointed. He turned down the lake shore, dreaming of the end of his journey, rebelling at the necessity for Claire to listen to Lawrence's talk, and rejoicing at how different his life with her would be. Inside the cabin, Lawrence closed the door and stepped into the room. Claire stood waiting silently before him, and when he came to her, she threw her arms happily around his neck. He laughed and caught her up. "So you lie in wait for me, do you?" he teased. "Why not? I want to capture my man," she said softly. "You have him, dearest. And, by the way"--he sat down and drew her on to the arm of his chair--"permit me to extend you my sympathy for the suffering you must have experienced at the thought of living with Philip." She shuddered a little, and laughed. "Such frankness as his home would permit!" she said. "I'm afraid our hearth would not radiate warmth." "Nothing could warm such a home into anything like the real thing," Lawrence mused. "It was my privilege when in college to stay for a time in a home where the people had really attained the ideal. It was the only home that ever made me envious." "I shall make you such a home, dear," she whispered. "No, we will have a mere cave, a lair," he laughed. She shook her long hair down over his face playfully. "Will you be a savage old cave man?" she asked. "I shall. As savage as they ever made them in the golden age," he answered, and drew her down against him. "I shall like that," she said, her eyes full of a warm, dreamy light. "You will be terribly abused by your beast husband," Lawrence said gaily. "I think sometimes, Lawrence, that I could enjoy being hurt by your hands--having them really cause me pain." He gripped her tightly against him and his hands tightened. "Claire," he said, "a man never knows what there is in his nature till a woman like you whispers in his ear. You make me afraid at what I feel within me." "I know," she said. "I'm afraid, too, of what there is in you, but just the same I'm going to be the happiest woman in the world." "I hope so," he said. "But you will have to defend yourself against selfishness." "I have to do that already," she laughed, "but I don't mind. I can, and that is the main thing. Besides, when you really want anything very much, you have a way of forcing me to want it, too, my master-lover!" He laughed joyously. "Claire," he said, "if we ever do go to smash, you and I, there will have been a glorious day and a glorious house to smash with. It won't be a petty breaking of toy dishes!" "No," she whispered, "it will be the breaking of life's foundations." She slipped from his arms and into her room. Philip was coming in. Lawrence sat down in a chair and Philip threw himself on his bed in silence. He was caught in the inevitable result of his beliefs. He had argued with Lawrence because he was troubled. His whole being was filled with a great fear. Remembering how Lawrence and Claire had acted lately, he had been thrown into a fever of jealous rage. He was utterly beyond his depth now, and he was silent because to speak would have meant to break into accusation. His imagination had pictured Claire in Lawrence's arms while he was gone; if he had actually known the truth it would have been less agonizing than the picture. He lay there filled with his own thoughts and dreading the moment when Lawrence would come and lie down beside him. Behind her curtain he heard Claire moving about, humming a little song, and it added to his torture. He turned restlessly on his bed and groaned. Lawrence raised his head. He, too, was dreaming of Claire, but his imaginings, vividly alluring in their appeal, were filled with the content of happiness. Claire was his. That was certain, and those sweet dreams should be fulfilled again and again in his life, with a growing depth that would make them the more beautiful. What a creature of wonder she was--and she was his--his, to love, to enjoy, to master, and to work for. Yes, and to work with. He would find her the needed impulse and idea to form his great work. She would make him the creative artist, the sculptor that he felt he had the power to be. Philip muttered something, and Lawrence turned toward him. "Feeling bad?" he asked genially. Philip did not answer. "You aren't ill, are you?" Lawrence's voice was full of real concern. He was thinking that it would be bad if they had to stay here a while longer. "No. Only in spirit. I will be all right to-morrow." Philip turned over, and Lawrence sat down again to dream. For a long time he remained there, meditating, and at last he arose to go to bed. Philip was asleep and breathing heavily. Claire was moving a little. Lawrence stopped to listen. The curtain parted, her arms slipped around his neck, and silently there in the darkness she kissed him passionately, eagerly. He held her tightly, her soft, warm figure thrilling him with joy. Philip turned restlessly, and she hastily drew back, stealing a last swift kiss. Lawrence walked toward his bed. He heard a low, stifling little laugh, then all was still in the cabin. Claire had laughed for very joy at her love. He smiled tenderly. Dear little woman, she was indeed a wealth untold to him. What a life theirs would be after they got away from Philip! Poor Philip, his would indeed be a sad fate, with his ideals here to worry him after they were gone. Well, he wasn't the sort that one could help. Let him work out his own destiny. Lawrence lay down comfortably, and sending a thousand dear thoughts flying across the silent room, he fell asleep while he smiled at his own romancing. CHAPTER XX. THE LAW OF LIFE. The last morning at the cabin was bright and sunny, with the warm mystery of the day promising an infinity of strength for the future. All three of them felt it and were carried along in dreams of anticipated relief. Breakfast over, Philip helped Lawrence and Claire get their packs ready. When everything was done, he said cheerily: "I will be gone less than an hour in getting that farthest trap--I am going to make quick speed--and then we will be off." They laughed with the joy that was filling their hearts. "Don't be longer than you can help, Philip," Claire admonished, and Lawrence added: "Every minute that divides us from our life ahead seems an eternity." Claire smiled at the dear thoughts his words provoked. "Good," said Philip in the doorway. "I'll hurry." And he was gone. Claire and Lawrence stood in the doorway while Philip went singing down the lake shore. Her eyes filled with a warm light, and she slipped her hand into Lawrence's. "At this moment, dear," she said, "I feel only pity for him. He is going to be hurt." "Who wouldn't be, dearest, at losing you?" "Always flattering," she teased. They stood arm in arm, leaning against the door-casing. "Claire," he said, "let's take a last walk around our estate. The place where I first found the real, you will always be beautiful to me. I'm less blind this morning than I've been in my life." "Of course you are," she said gaily. "You've acquired two good eyes." "And two dear hands and a very wonderful personality that makes me doubly able," he said softly. They wandered out across the plateau in the direction from which they had first entered it. Their conversation was broken and often meaningless, but eminently pleasing to them both. "Dear heart," Claire mused softly, "you don't know what that poor, freezing, underfed woman in your naked arms felt when she heard you muttering that you needed her, as you stumbled down this ravine." "How did she feel?" Claire was dreaming back, and she wanted to tell him, but she found her emotions too complex and too rapid for expression. "And then when you added that it was to use her as a subject for a stone image," laughed Claire, "she was furious with you, and yet she was very sure that she didn't want you to care about her in any other way." "Then perhaps I am making a mistake," he jested. "Perhaps, my dearest, but I am so glad of it that I don't care if you are." He caught her in his arms. They were very near the great point in lovers' lives when emotions always tend to break all restraint. She clung to him passionately, her lips yielding and holding his in a rapture of love. Together they swayed toward a great tree and sat down. When they returned to the cabin, they were surprised to find Philip still gone. With the whimsicality of lovers, they dismissed him from their thoughts and sat down in the armchair together, laughing and talking of the past. Their conversation ran gradually into a clearly defined discussion in which both minds were compelled to think quickly, and they found new joy in their love. Even now, when their whole minds were swayed by emotion, they were able to think, to talk, and to be alive to everything in the world of intellect. Art, religion, and life, all in a grand mix-chaotic tangle. Lawrence was talking for the joy of his thought to the woman who he knew would enjoy it. "You see, Claire," he said after a long discussion, "in the religious instinct we find very little besides a fear of the unknown. What else there is in it is the more valuable part, and it is this lesser section that we can develop and use to advantage." "What is this lesser section?" she asked. "The vital desire to create for our God's sake. If we could build that into its real place, stimulated as it is by the overwhelming appreciation of beauty in nature, we could establish something far more worth while than a mere deceiving of men about their own kind, their faults, and their relations." "You aren't quite fair, Lawrence," she protested. "In so far as the church makes for a stronger socialization, it is a good." "But does it always promote that very effectively? Most of the socialization could be better carried on where really educated people were educators. The few of them there are in our schools now are hampered as much as they are helped by the church." "I don't agree," she said. "The church does hamper education in higher branches, undoubtedly, but in the kindergartens and grades it is a good." "I don't know," he responded; "I never saw it." "Well," she cried suddenly, and laughed, "whatever we think of the church, I agree that religion isn't always there, and when it is, barring a few liberal exceptions, it is generally misdirected." "And here you and I sit in the Andes Mountains talking when we might be making love," he laughed. "And here we are making love under the pretense of being intellectual," she rejoined. "What would we do without the dear deceptions that make us such pitiably delightful animals?" "We'd be a hopelessly unimaginative set of eaters." His answer was quick. "I am convinced that it is our very power to deceive, plan grand follies, though petty in deeds, that makes us artists, dreamers, thinkers, and statesmen." "Perhaps," she agreed, and then slipped her arms around him suddenly. "Is that what makes us able lovers, too?" He laughed. "By Jove, I believe it is!" he exclaimed. "Well, old universal tangle, I do truly thank you for the power to be a foolish, deceived, human being. Hurrah for the instinct that makes me call you my divine necessity, Claire." She laughed happily and leaned against his shoulder. "For any instinct or deception that makes you more enjoyable, let us give thanks," he repeated. "And for all the dear bodily claims that make me your adored one I do give thanks, Lawrence," she whispered. Their lips met again. She drew back startled, and sprang to her feet with a cry of terror. Philip stood in the doorway, looking at them with a face from which all human sentiment was gone. He was a raging beast. "Lawrence," she screamed. "Philip!" Her lover sprang to his feet. Now he realized his blindness and its true handicap. Philip was there, somewhere before him, thinking what he could not know. He waited, every muscle strained with expectant fear and anger. Claire was staring at Philip with abject terror in her face. Lawrence could not know that, he only heard her breathing heavily, and instinctively his arm went out to her. "Don't be afraid, dear," he said tenderly. The man in the door uttered an exclamation. "So"--and his words were sharp as icicles--"that is your damned wanton way. You are the second harlot I have loved." Lawrence started forward angrily. "Fool!" he ejaculated. Claire's warning scream gave him just time to brace his body. Philip had sprung at him like a wild beast, and the impact of his weight sent Lawrence staggering backward. In that moment the Spaniard's hand closed on his throat. The blind man was paying the price of his defect in his long-talked-of primitive battle for life. Even then he thought of the scene as it must be, and smiled bitterly, while his hand went to his throat and tore at the wrist that was steeling itself to rob him of breath. Had he been able to see, the fight would still have been unequal. Philip was taller, wirier, and quicker on his feet. Lawrence's one advantage lay in his keen, quick response to touch sensation, and that gave him his sense of direction and ability to move rightly. With one hand he tore at Philip's wrist, while with the other he reached steadily for Philip's face. They had knocked over the chairs and were staggering against the table. From the corner by the fireplace Claire watched them in an agony of dread. It was indeed her time of test. She saw Lawrence's hand clutching at the flesh of Philip's cheek. They were panting like two beasts. It was the primitive battle of males for the female of their choice. Philip's hand was torn free from Lawrence's throat. The blind man laughed as his lungs filled with air. She heard him mutter between clenched teeth: "By God, I'll spoil your advantage." They were struggling again for throat holds. Lawrence was protecting his own, but the hand he had wrenched free closed around his arm, bending it back slowly, irresistibly toward the point where it must break. She screamed and covered her eyes for a second at what her lover was doing--she saw him deliberately gouge at Philip's eyes with his thumb held hard. She heard both men fall, and looked again in spite of herself. They were on the floor writhing, their bodies against each other, clawing, striking, digging, and biting like two wild gorillas. Now Lawrence was on top, now underneath, but she could not help but see that Philip was slowly gaining. Though badly injured in one eye, he still fought on unhesitatingly, forcing Lawrence nearer and nearer to death. The artist was even now ceasing to resist, his struggle had become spasmodic. Her lover was being choked to death. She sprang to her feet. "Lawrence!" she screamed. "Lawrence!" He was being killed in a battle for the possession of her. Could she stand still and see the man she loved murdered? Her hair fell about her shoulders in a mass. She swept it back from her face, looked frantically around her, then rushed to the wall-cupboard on the other side of the cabin and drew out a long meat-knife. The touch of the steel in her hand carried her out beyond the last barrier of civilized thought. For a moment she was the savage through and through. With a scream like that of a wounded lioness whose cub is in danger, she sprang toward them, the knife uplifted. Then she stopped. Something paralyzed her--generations of inherited inhibition, conscience, what you will. "O God!" she moaned miserably, as the weapon fell from her hand. It clattered on the wooden floor close beside the two men. Philip looked up, and his white teeth gleamed in a grim smile. Claire realized what she had done--she had placed the means of certain triumph within reach of her lover's enemy. She stooped to regain the knife, but it was too late. Philip released his grip on Lawrence's throat, leaned over, and seized the blade. It was a mistake. Lawrence was far past consciousness of what he was doing, but his body still instinctively obeyed his will. As the weight from his chest was eased for a moment, he writhed his body into a freer position and his arms struck out wildly. Philip saw his danger and raised the knife. The scene passed in a second, but to Claire it was as if they were petrified for hours in that position--she half-kneeling there, her arm outstretched, and Philip astride Lawrence's body, holding the knife in midair. In that last picture, carved upon Claire's agonized gaze, all the Spaniard's beauty was gone forever--he was a monster, his face distorted, one eye closed, his smile broadening into a hideous dog-like grin. Philip's arm came down. As it did so, it was struck from above by Lawrence's, swinging aimlessly in a wide sweep. The blade, deflected with double force, entered deep into Philip's breast. For just one instant an expression of angry and almost ludicrous surprise leaped across the Spaniard's face as his teeth snapped shut. Then his whole body twisted round violently, rolled over, and lay still beside Lawrence's equally motionless form. Claire tottered back into a chair, and stared at them stupidly. Silence reigned in the cabin where there had been chaos. Slowly from under Philip's body a red line spread to a blotch on the floor. Lawrence was lying there, his head almost touching it. Claire gazed and gazed, while she felt as if she must faint from the dreadful illness which seized her. Suddenly Lawrence was sitting up, his blackened face growing less terrible to look upon. He put his hands to his throat, and then, as the pain in his lungs decreased, he rose unsteadily. For a moment he balanced himself carefully, rubbing his throat. Then he cried hoarsely: "Claire!" She moistened her lips with her tongue, but could not answer. He stooped and began to feel across the floor. She saw his hands, those sensitive hands, move toward Philip's dead body. They would be in his blood presently. She started forward. "Lawrence!" she screamed. He stopped abruptly. Her tone had filled him with dread wonder. "What is it, Claire?" he whispered. She stood a moment, silently looking at him. He straightened and stepped toward her, "What is it?" he demanded. She swayed unsteadily and sank into his arms, sobbing, her body wrenched with the agony. "Take me outside," she whispered fearfully. He lifted her and carried her out into the sunlight. She sat down on the ground and wept bitterly, while he sat silently beside her, seeking to comfort her with his arms. At last she said in an awed tone: "Lawrence, he is dead. Killed by his own blow--with his own knife. But I might have done it. I--I thought of it." She remembered the touch of the knife in her hands, the sight of Philip's blood seeping out around his own body. "It is terrible," she moaned. "I--I might have done it." Her lover's hands tightened spasmodically. His face went white, then became normal again. She watched him, hypnotized. Would he tell her that she was as good as a murderer, that he could not love her now? He wet his lips, then suddenly laughed aloud. Claire could have screamed at the sound. She clutched his arm and shook him. "Stop it!" she commanded. "What is it, Lawrence?" He stood up and lifted her beside him. "I must have a drink," he said calmly. She stared at him, then brought him some water from beside the cabin. He drank it easily, but with some pain. Finally he dropped the cup at his feet. "Life is a wonderful thing, Claire." She was still too shaken to do aught but gaze at him. "What now?" she asked at last, falteringly. He heard the fear, half anguish and half hope, in her voice, and suddenly he caught her to him and cried buoyantly: "What now? Life, Claire, life! We have the whole world before us. It was my life or his. I am glad it was not mine." He smiled. "Well, we have staged the great animal stunt. I have fought for the possession of life." She let her head fall on his shoulder. "Then--then I am not repulsive to you?" she choked. "Repulsive! Why?" His voice was full of wonder. "I--I thought of murdering him," she whispered. "Claire," he answered tenderly, "human beings think many things they don't and can't do. That is part of our old heritage. But let's get away from here, Claire. Staying here won't do either of us any good. What is done is done. We cannot help it. Very well, then the best thing to do is to forget it. Shall we start?" She stepped back and looked at him. He was all energy, clear-countenanced, free, frank, and normal. "Yes, I am ready." She stooped and took up her pack from beside the door. He took his and threw it over his shoulder. Hand-in-hand they started forward and out toward civilization. CHAPTER XXI. INTO THE SUNLIGHT. All that day they talked little. Both were occupied with their own thoughts. Lawrence was dreaming of his work, his future with Claire, and the home that was to be. Claire was pondering Lawrence's words, "Human beings think many things they don't and can't do." To her these words had been both a great comfort and a startling awakening. Almost instantly had returned an idea which she had thought forever gone, and all day it kept growing. That night they camped beside a stream under great trees where tiny blue flowers winked up at them from the deep grass. After supper they sat beside their fire dreaming. At last Lawrence took her in his arms, and she laid her shoulder against his. "Lawrence," she said thoughtfully, "isn't it strange how little we know ourselves when we think we know most?" "Yes, I sometimes think we are nearer folly then than at any other time." "Do you know what I have been thinking to-day?" "No. But I know what I have been thinking." He drew her tight, laughing. "I have thought of you, always you, my wife to be." She patted his hand tenderly. "I can scarcely wait till we get out, Claire." "I know, dear." They listened to the purling of the stream and dreamed. Days followed in uneventful sequence. Each brought them nearer to the railroad, towns, and escape. Lawrence was freely merry. At times Claire was caught in his gaiety, but more and more often he noticed that she was quiet. He attributed her silences at first to the charming strain of diffidence he had learned to know as part of this woman, but gradually he grew fearful lest all was not well. "If she wants me to know, she will tell me," he thought. She seemed to divine what he was thinking, but she did not speak. She wanted to be sure of herself before she said anything. Lawrence's words came again and again, and each time they brought with them a stronger feeling that there was yet one thing they must do. This feeling increased as they neared the town toward which they journeyed. The night came when they were more than ever silent. "To-morrow," Lawrence said at last. "To-morrow we reach civilization. Oh, Claire, Claire, with civilization come you, home, our real life!" She moved uneasily. There was a sudden overwhelming sense of her need, and she resolved to tell him everything. "Lawrence," she began, "to-morrow we do reach civilization, and I--I am finding out things about myself." He knew she was going to tell him what troubled her. For an instant he was filled with terror lest she say she could not love him after all. Perhaps his fight with Philip had sickened her, killed her love. Tense and fearful, he waited. "Go on, Claire. I have noticed something." "It isn't that I don't love you," she cried, seeing his fear in his drawn face. "Oh, I do love you!" He laughed with relief. "Then speak away. Nothing else in the world can frighten me." "I'm afraid that it will displease you." "Not if it is something real to you." "Well then--oh, it seems so hard to explain. I--I am finding myself out." "That ought to be pleasant." "Yes, it is--yet, I don't know--you see, back there in the wilderness I thought nothing mattered but you. It was so hard and uncertain. The future was so far off. But now it's different. Every day I have neared civilization I have grown less sure that our way is the right way." "Why not? It all seems clear to me." "But, Lawrence, are we quite fair? Are we quite right with ourselves?" "I try to be. I certainly try to be fair to you." "I know. That's it. You would want me to be fair to--to every one, wouldn't you, and above all, to myself?" "You must be that, Claire." She did not continue at once. He waited, holding her hand very tight between his own. "Go on, Claire." The deep earnestness of the faith in her that rang through his words gave her courage. "It is Howard and--and my vows to him." Lawrence sat, his brows knit. She watched him. "I see," he answered. "I see, but--" "After all, I promised to be his wife forever, you know." "But you don't love him now." "No. I love you--and for your sake as well as my own I've got to straighten things out between Howard and myself." "I thought they were straight. He thinks you are dead." "But I know that I'm not dead, and all my life I would know that I had been unfair to myself as well as to him. I must go and get things right before--before I marry you." Her voice dropped and lingered caressingly yet with gracious reverence over these last words, as one's does in speaking of holy things. "I see," he said. Her tone told him more than her words. "I think you do." "Yes, I do. But when did you begin thinking of this?" "When you said, 'Human beings think many things they don't and can't do.'" "I understand." He threw back his head. "You see, dearest, it is that everything in our lives may be clean." "Good enough, Claire." He was hearty in his agreement. To his alert mind the problem seemed very clear. "Yes," he went on, "you are right. It isn't going to be easy. It will hurt him to have you tell him that you no longer love him, but I suppose it can't be helped, and it is best." "I knew you would say so." Her cry was full of relief. "To-morrow morning we'll start early," he laughed. "Noon will get us to the railroad if Ortez was right about distances, and then--home and the last clearing-up before we start life." The matter was settled. Claire lay down in her blankets happily. She did not sleep at once, however. Gazing through the fire, she let her eyes rest tenderly on the strong face of the sleeping man opposite. She had seen much of him, and always he was fair, just, and she loved him. Her eyes filled with tears as she thought of the suffering she must cause her husband, yet it was right and she could do no less. She would tell him everything. He was big and he would understand. Since her whole nature, primal and spiritual, cried out that Lawrence was her mate, Howard would free her. She fell asleep sure that everything would work out right, and then--life and love, as Lawrence said with that exuberant lift in his voice. At noon of the next day they stopped on the brow of a high hill. "Lawrence," Claire cried exultantly. "It is there--below us--a town!" "Hurrah!" They laughed like children who had discovered a long-sought treasure, then hand-in-hand as they had walked so far, they dropped down the steep slope and into a quaint mining village. The sound of men, the scent of smoke, and above all, the clang and puff of a locomotive, sent their blood racing. Too happy to speak, they ran along the street scarcely noticing the people, and found the station. That night they were speeding toward the coast, and a few days later found them northward-bound on a liner. It was decided that Lawrence should not go with her to her home. He would wait in San Francisco till she had seen her husband and was free. They parted with eager yet hesitating hearts in that city. Claire found it harder than she had imagined to go alone, but her will was master and she did not falter. To Lawrence, waiting for word from her, time was dead and moved not at all. When Claire arrived, the old familiar city seemed strangely desolate. She found herself wondering with a little flush of shame how she could have loved it so. Then came her testing time. She had arrived late at night and gone to a hotel. No one had noticed her. The next morning as she went into the breakfast-room, some one rose hastily, with an exclamation. It was her husband's business partner. How she ever got through her own explanations she did not know, then she heard him speaking. "Yes, Mrs. Barkley, we had given you up for lost with the others on that fated ship. And I cannot express my regret at the sorrow you have returned to meet." "I--sorrow--why?" She stared at him wonderingly. He looked surprised, then understood. Claire listened silently to his brief, sincere sympathy as he told her how her husband had died during the winter of pneumonia. "It has been nearly six months now," he finished, "and, of course, I am very sorry for you. If I can do anything to help you, don't hesitate to call on me, please." "Thank you. I--I won't." She heard her own voice change. Stifled, she fled up-stairs. Her grief was sincere, unshaded by any selfish thought that it made her own course easier or more justifiable in the eyes of society. To her, Howard Barkley's death changed nothing save that the man whom she had once loved sincerely was now no more. But the living remained, and to the call of the living her life was henceforth joyfully dedicated. (The end.) [Transcriber's Note: The following typographical errors present in the original edition have been corrected.] In Chapter V, "tenements she had visted in her charity work" was changed to "tenements she had visited in her charity work". In Chapter VII, a missing quotation mark was added after "What, indeed, is moral law?" In Chapter IX, "disdiscover what she was" was changed to "discover what she was". In Chapter X, "Disliking him as he did" was changed to "Disliking him as she did". In Chapter XI, "as abnormal as her depondency had been before" was changed to "as abnormal as her despondency had been before". In Chapter XVIII, "I promise to an emotionless judge" was changed to "I promise to be an emotionless judge", and "harded and harder to wait" was changed to "harder and harder to wait". In Chapter XX, "clearly defined discusion" was changed to "clearly defined discussion", and "the overwelming appreciation of beauty in nature" was changed to "the overwhelming appreciation of beauty in nature". [Transcriber's Note: The following summary originally appeared at the beginning of the serial's second installment.] PRECEDING CHAPTERS BRIEFLY RETOLD When the City of Panama foundered off the coast of Chile, Lawrence Gordon suddenly realized he had been left, in the frenzy of the disaster, alone on the deck. Then, before he had fully recovered from the lash of the wind and the violence of the waves, he was swept overboard and into the seething maelstrom of an angry sea. As he came up from the depths he struck a heavy timber, and with the strength of desperation he dragged his weight up on it and clung fast. "Land may be in sight," was his thought, "and I shall never know!" Lawrence Gordon was blind. Hours had passed. The wind-lashed water beat him as he lay on the timber. Fear and the cold drove him to rave at life and death alike. Finally, over the roar of the wind, he caught the tumbling of breakers. His plank was spun round, the swell lifted him from his position, and the next breaker rolled him past the water-line. Once with the feel of the sand beneath his feet he ran until a rock caught him above the knees and sent him headlong. When he regained consciousness he returned to the water to hunt for clams. As he came ashore again he tripped over an object that on investigation proved a woman. Claire Barkley answered to his ministrations, and recognized the blind man she had observed on the boat. She could furnish the eyes for an investigation of their situation inland, but her ankle had been sprained in the wreck and she was unable to walk. When months after, just as they had reached the limit of human endurance--what with hunger, the cold, and privation--they stumbled into the cabin of Philip Ortez. The Spanish mountaineer declared it no less than a miracle that a blind man should have carried a woman in his arms half across the Andes--from the coast to the borders of Bolivia. Then they settled down to spend the winter in Philip's cabin. And now the latent antagonism of the woman, who was so curiously stirred by the apparent coldness of this blind sculptor to her charm, began to plan the man's punishment. [Transcriber's Note: The following summary originally appeared at the beginning of the serial's third installment. The summary at the beginning of the serial's fourth installment, if one was present, was not available when preparing this electronic edition.] PRECEDING CHAPTERS BRIEFLY RETOLD When Lawrence Gordon, numb with cold and hunger, after weeks of weary wandering through the mountains in a desperate effort to find a habitation, came in sight of the mountaineer's little cabin, he dropped the woman from his breaking arms and fell, exhausted and unconscious, in the snow. Flung into the sea when the ship foundered, he had eventually found his way to the beach, and here he stumbled on the unconscious form of Claire Barkley. Mrs. Barkley's ankle had been sprained in the wreck and she was unable to walk. The man was strong, dominant, and unafraid; but he was blind. Carrying the woman in his arms the blind man had stumbled half across the Andes, for the boat was wrecked off the coast of Chile, and Philip Ortez, whose cabin they had reached, declared they were on the borders of Bolivia, about two hundred miles from the nearest railroad station. This Spanish scholar, gentleman, and recluse readily welcomed two such promising guests for the winter. A charming woman of twenty-six, with a mind as well as emotions, and a man not much older, who was both a philosopher and an artist, promised no end of diversion for the winter. And diversion, not to say, drama, came--the eternal triangle. Lawrence was slow in admitting his love for Claire, even to himself. And Claire, who was affronted by the seeming cold and calculating indifference of this big, blind god, suddenly realized his apparent coldness held the very heart of passion itself. In the playful scramble of a snow-fight before the cabin, Lawrence had taken her by the waist to wash her face with snow, and the contact of her tightly held body betrayed the tensity of the man's feeling. Claire broke from his grasp to look into the eyes of Philip, who had stood in the doorway to watch the fun. In the eyes of the Spaniard she detected the emotion she felt in the touch of the blind sculptor. The next day, to relieve the suppressed passion in her own as well as Lawrence's soul, she proposed to go with Philip, as she sometimes did, when he went out to spend the day with his traps. On the return journey, when the conversation was fast drifting into the personal, Philip, carried off his feet by the nearness of the woman and the madness in his blood, snatched Claire up in his arms and covered her full lips with his kisses. The indignant woman brought him to an abject apology after his wild confession of love, and entered into a compact of friendship with him. Reaching the cabin, the blind man, whose acute soul and senses had long told him of Philip's passion, held out the finished carving he had been at work on all these weeks--a winged cherub. In his eyes it was the symbol of his love for her. But her words of acceptance made him think in her eyes it was rather a symbol of her love for the mountaineer. To Philip it was a symbol of hope. 
44249	----	DETECTIVES, INC. A Mystery Story for Boys by WILLIAM HEYLIGER The Goldsmith Publishing Company Chicago Copyright 1935 by The Goldsmith Publishing Company Made in U. S. A. CONTENTS PAGE Foreword 13 Theft in the Rain 21 Voices in the Night 53 The Unknown Four 81 Blind Man's Touch 107 Birthday Warning 137 The House of Beating Hearts 163 As a Man Speaks 193 Arm of Guilt 221 FOREWORD DOGS WHO SET BLIND MEN FREE In Morristown, New Jersey, there is what is probably the most remarkable school in the world--a school where dogs are educated to liberate physically the blind people of our country. This school is called The Seeing Eye and was founded in 1928 by a woman whose life and wealth has been devoted to this remarkable cause; her name is Mrs. Harrison Eustis. Female German shepherd dogs are chosen for this work because they are not easily distracted from the duties entrusted to them. It takes from three to five months to complete a dog's education. The first few months are spent with her instructor: she learns to pick up whatever he drops; learns that if she walks off a curb without first stopping, he stumbles and falls; that if she passes under a low obstruction, he hits his head. It is very hard to find men with sufficient patience to learn how to educate these dogs and it is equally as difficult to teach the blind how to rely upon and use these dogs. HOW THE DOG WORKS The method by which the dog and man work together is simple. The dog guide does not take her master to his destination without being told where to go. It is not generally appreciated, but blind people develop an adequate mental picture of their own communities. All they need is a means by which they may be guided around _their_ picture. In a strange city they ask directions as anyone else would. It is simple to remember the blocks and to remember also when to go right or left. In familiar territory people with eyesight do not look for the name of every street. The master directs his dog by oral commands of "right," "left" or "forward." But it is the dog that guides the master. By means of the handle of the leather harness which he holds lightly in his left hand, she takes him around pedestrians, sidewalk obstructions, automobiles, anything which may interfere with his safe progress. The pace is rapid, rather faster than that of the average pedestrian. Upon arriving at street crossings the dog guides her master to the edge of the curb and stops. He finds the edge immediately with his foot or cane and then gives his guide the necessary command for the direction in which he wishes to go. The dog can be depended upon to do her part. Her lessons have been thorough, particularly those which teach her to think for herself. She must pass the school's rigid "blindfold" test in which her instructor's eyes are bandaged so that he is, for practical purposes, blind. She is then tested under the most difficult conditions, on streets and intersections and in the heaviest of pedestrian and auto traffic. She does not look at traffic lights but at traffic. When she passes she can be certified as ready for her blind master. Not every blind person can use a dog guide. Some are too young, many too old. Some do not like dogs. But conservative estimates indicate that there are about 10,000 in America who would benefit through a dog guide. It is understandable that leading workers for the blind, business men and women, are urging The Seeing Eye to extend its facilities as rapidly as is consistent with the maintenance of the highest possible standards. THE ESSENTIALS TO SUCCESS There are no secrets which The Seeing Eye uses to make the shepherd an effective guide, but there are several essentials to success. The first is experience. The knowledge gained by the years of work which have gone into the development of The Seeing Eye is called upon in the education of every student. A second essential is that the carefully selected dog is educated, not trained. She is taught to think for herself and in her instruction learns certain principles which she can apply to problems she will meet later. If she reacted only to commands she would be useless in guiding blind people. Another essential is the fact that she loves to work. To her, service is a pleasure and not a duty. Her master's hours are hers. Her main compensation is her master's affection and his utter reliance on her. Blind students, men and women, come to the school in classes of eight, the maximum an instructor is able to teach at one time. While their major objective is to learn through practice and instruction how to direct the dog and follow her guidance, some of them must learn other things, too. Many of them since blindness have lost the faculty of finding their way in known surroundings. Others have fallen into the habit of shuffling feet and groping walk, with body bent forward and hands outstretched. Some never have walked down stairs unaided. These are things which must be unlearned if the dog is to bring independence. At The Seeing Eye the student is taught to free himself from these habits of helplessness, so that self-reliance and courage gradually return. Anticipation replaces despair as the dog opens a new world for her master, one he dreamed of but never hoped to have again. All the practice work of the student with his dog takes place on the streets of Morristown. Here, morning and afternoon each day, the student gradually assimilates his lessons. Near the end of his month's course he is able to go easily and fearlessly about the city without an instructor, just as he will in his various activities on his return home. THE DOG AND HER MASTER ARE INSEPARABLE From the time the student is assigned his dog, the two are inseparable. No one else feeds or cares for her and within a few days the two are bound together by a mutual affection--a tie which remains unbroken throughout the years of the dog's working life. Even about the house, where no guiding is necessary, dog and man are constantly together just because they want to be. She even sleeps close by her master's bed. NOTE For the sake of the story certain qualities have been given "Lady" which are found in individual German shepherd dogs, though never present in a blind leader. DETECTIVES, INC. _A Mystery Story for Boys_ THEFT IN THE RAIN Joe Morrow, very sleepy, grew conscious of voices coming up from the porch--the slow drawl of his uncle, Dr. David Stone, and a quicker, sharper voice. Abruptly the sharper tone scratched at his memory and the drowsiness was gone. What was Harley Kent doing here? So far as he knew the man had never visited the house before, and his uncle had never set foot on the Kent place a quarter of a mile down the road. A word, stark and clear, came through the bedroom window. Robbery! And suddenly he was out of bed and slipping into his clothes. The morning was cool and fresh after the heavy rain of the night. His uncle stood at the porch railing, sightless eyes turned off across the valley, a great, tawny German shepherd dog at his side. Harley Kent crowded the top step, and Joe noticed that the dog sneezed, and grew restless, and drew back a step. "Lady, easy." Dr. Stone's hand felt for the dog's head and rubbed a twitching ear. "When did you say it was discovered, Kent?" "A little after six o'clock this morning. The maid found a window open and called me. The wall safe was open, too, and the necklace was gone. Could I trouble you for a match, Doctor? I've lost my lighter." The man stepped upon the porch, and the dog sneezed again and retreated. Dr. Stone brought forth matches, and Harley Kent had to come close to get them. Joe was vaguely conscious that his uncle's face had become intent. Harley Kent lit a cigar. "I'm not in the habit of keeping jewels in the house. Mrs. Kent's been in Europe; her ship docks next Monday. We're to attend a dinner that night, and I knew she'd want the necklace. I took it out of a safe deposit box a week ago and brought it home." Dr. Stone asked a question. "Insured, of course?" "Certainly. Twenty-five thousand." The boy sucked in his breath and wondered what twenty-five thousand dollars would look like piled up in shining half dollars. The Kent automobile gleamed in front of the house, and a uniformed chauffeur sat motionless behind the wheel. "You've notified the police?" "I tried to, but the storm last night crippled our telephone line. I came over to use yours." "Ours is out, too." Harley Kent made an impatient gesture. "That means I'll have to run into the village." The cigar came out of his mouth. "It was an inside job, Doctor. Whoever robbed that safe knew how to get into it. It was opened by combination." Dr. Stone said coolly, "That's putting it on your own doorstep." Harley Kent shrugged. "Figure it out for yourself. There were only three of us in the house--Donovan, the chauffeur, the maid, and myself. Two days ago I forgot to take some papers to New York. I telephoned Donovan to bring them in. They were in the safe and I had to give him the combination. Well, I'm off for the village. I understand you were a police surgeon before----" The man coughed. "Yes," said Dr. Stone without emotion. "Before I lost my sight." "Well, if you'd like to run over and get the feel of a case again----" "It might be interesting," the doctor said slowly. Harley Kent went down the steps, a door slammed, and the car rolled away. Joe had a glimpse of the uniformed figure at the wheel, and spoke in a hoarse whisper: "Will Donovan be put in jail, Uncle David?" "Perhaps." The hand came up from the dog's head and tapped the porch railing thoughtfully. "What time is it, Joe? About eight?" "Five after." "Two hours," Dr. Stone said as though speaking to himself. Abruptly he jerked his head. "Time we had breakfast," he added, and boy and dog followed at his heels. Here, in the home of his widowed sister that had sheltered him for five years, he knew his way perfectly, and there was nothing to mark him out as blind as he walked boldly toward the dining room. And yet at the last moment, his handicap touched him with uncertainty. He had to put out his hand to make sure of the table and then fumble for his chair. Joe wondered about jails, and was sorry for Donovan. Twice the man had picked him up on the road and carried him into the village, and once he had spent a fascinating afternoon in the Kent garage holding tools while the chauffeur worked on the car. Did they lock a prisoner in a cell and keep him there night and day? His mother's voice cut through his thoughts. "You're going over, David?" "I have a reason for wanting to go," the man said. Joe's heart throbbed. A reason for going. His throat was husky again. "Right away, Uncle David? A policeman has to get there while the trail is hot, doesn't he?" "There are some trails," Dr. Stone said in his slow drawl, "that do not grow cold." Out on the porch he filled a pipe and smoked quietly. Joe, watching that lion head topped by crisp, unruly white hair, wondered if his uncle ever became excited. He fidgeted and watched a clock; and by and by Dr. Stone knocked the ashes from his pipe, stood up, and took a dog's harness down from a nail. The dog stretched its great body and held out its head. A stiff leash rose from either side of the harness and joined a wide, hard handle-grip at the top. "Lady, forward!" Slowly, protectingly, the massive animal took Dr. Stone down the steps and along the concrete walk to the road. "Lady, right." Without hesitation the dog turned right, the tawny body pressed almost against the man's left leg. They were off now, and Dr. Stone's body bent slightly from the waist toward the dog, while his right hand lightly swung a cane. He might have been gifted with sight, so rapidly did he walk, so complete was his confidence in his four-footed guide. Joe had to stretch his legs to keep up with them. They went past fields and orchards, fences and tangles of wild grape. The doctor's cane, swinging along, came in contact at last, with a wall of hedge. "Kent's place, Joe?" "Yes, sir." Joe's throat throbbed with a twitching pulse. A telephone repair truck was in the driveway. The dog slowed, and swung aside, pulling on the leash and changing his course. Without hesitation Dr. Stone followed the pull, and the dog led him around and past the truck. They appeared, in their movements, to be one. The boy said: "I like to watch him do that." "He's my eyes, Joe. Kent's car?" "No, sir; a telephone truck. I don't see his car." "Not back yet," said the doctor, and whistled soundlessly. They roamed the grounds. The dog at a rapid pace, took the man along one side of the house and deftly manoeuvered him around every tree and bush. In the rear a maid hung a sodden garment on the line and, after a frightened glance at them, disappeared into the house. The wind blew across the valley and the wet sleeve of a coat fluttered and swung toward Dr. Stone's face. He reached out a groping hand, and found the sleeve, and brought it close to his sightless eyes as though trying to pierce a veil of darkness and make out the pattern. Bees droned through a blooming lilac and they moved around to the other side of the house. "Joe, is there a pine tree on the place?" Pin pricks ran along the boy's spine. His uncle had never been here before--how did he know about the tree? "Yes, sir." "A large tree, heavy-branched?" "Yes, sir." "Take me there. Lady, forward." The cane explored the trunk and then slowly tapped the ground. "About six feet from the house, Joe?" Joe blinked. "How do you know?" "Sound echoes," Dr. Stone chuckled. Automobile tires ground the gravel of the driveway. "It's Mr. Kent," said the boy. Harley Kent hurried up to them. "Is this village supposed to have a police force?" he demanded. "Had to wait half an hour for Captain Tucker to stroll back from breakfast. There could be a dozen murders committed----" He broke off. "Just a moment, Doctor, and I'll be with you. It occurs to me I may have left that lighter in another suit----" "The maid hung one out to dry," Dr. Stone said. "Why, yes." Harley Kent stopped short. "That's it," he added, and was gone. Presently he was back. "Not there. I suppose it will turn up some place. Well, come in; come in. The police should be here before long." They mounted to the porch and Lady, after the manner of her breed when trained to work with the blind, stopped with her head directly under the knob of the strange door. "A remarkable animal," Harley Kent said in admiration. "Well, here's where the job was done, Doctor." Joe was conscious of strange tremors. Lady, alert, cocked her head and sniffed the air with an inquiring nose. The doctor, halting in the arched doorway leading from the hall, seemed to lose himself in thought. "There's a door to the left of this room, Kent?" "Yes; it leads into the dining room." "And windows in the wall facing this way. They're open now." Harley Kent gave a startled grunt. "Doctor, if I didn't know you were blind----" "Air currents," Dr. Stone said laconically. "I feel them on my face. You feel them, too, but they go unnoticed. You rely on your eyes. The wall safe, then, should be in the solid wall on the right. Correct, Kent?" "I don't understand it," Harley Kent said, still startled. The doctor asked an abrupt question. "How high is that safe from the floor?" "Six feet, eight inches." "To work the combination without straining a short man would have to stand upon a chair." "Exactly, Doctor. None of the chairs was disturbed; none of the cushions trampled. I checked that with the maid." Dr. Stone's face was impassive. "I gather that means something to you?" "What would it mean to you if I told you Donovan was a tall man?" The doctor's sightless eyes were fixed straight ahead as though he saw something that was denied to other men. "Does Donovan know he's suspected?" "He isn't quite a fool." A man passed quickly through the hall. Donovan! Joe instinctively stepped closer to the dog. And suddenly, under his feet, the floor boards creaked with a loud, harsh, dry protest. "Loose boards all over the room," Harley Kent explained. "I never bothered to have them nailed down. With the safe in this room I looked upon them as a burglar alarm. And yet, in the uproar of last night's storm, a cannon ball might have been rolled across the floor and nobody upstairs would have heard it." His hands made a resigned gesture of defeat. "No matter how sound you think your plans are, you can never be sure." "No," Dr. Stone said slowly, "there's always a slip." The telephone truck was gone, and now another car came up the driveway and stopped with a squeal of brakes. "Captain Tucker has evidently finished his breakfast at last," Harley Kent said with bitter sarcasm. "He'll want to question Donovan. If you don't mind, Doctor----" "Of course." The doctor took an uncertain step and paused. "I seem to have lost my bearings, Kent. Would you give me your arm to the door?" Joe followed blankly. It was the first time he had ever known his uncle to lose a sense of direction once established. Behind those blind eyes the room, in all its essentials, had been mapped. And even if its outlines had not been printed on a clear mind, the man had only to say, "Lady, out!" and the dog would have taken him to the door. Why take Harley Kent's arm? Captain Tucker, on the porch, spoke a greeting and passed inside. The door closed. Down at the end of the gravel where the driveway met the road, Joe instinctively turned toward home. But Dr. Stone said, "Lady, right!" and was off toward the village at that amazingly rapid pace. "I'm after pipe tobacco, Joe." The boy's shorter legs beat a rapid tattoo on the dirt road. "I bought you some yesterday, Uncle David." "An extra tin won't go to waste," the man said casually. Hedge and brush were full of fascinating odors that invited sniffing examination. But the shepherd dog, as though aware that the man who gripped the handle was in her keeping, went ahead with single-minded purpose. The dirt road became a paved street and they were in the town. Lady guided her charge toward the sidewalk, came to a cautious halt at the curb and waited for her command. A voice called: "Dr. Stone! Dr. Stone!" Joe saw that it was Tom Bloodgood, the jeweler. They waited, and Lady sat down on her haunches, watchful and alert. "Heard about the robbery out your way, Doctor?" "Yes." "That's something I'd never expect to happen. I can't understand how a burglar could have got across that room without waking the dead. The way that floor creaked----" "Kent says the storm drowned all other noise." The doctor's mouth had grown hard at the corners. "I didn't know you and Kent were on visiting terms." "We're not." "But if you knew about those floor boards----" "Oh! That was a business call--the only time I was in the house. He sent for me last Wednesday----" The voice stopped, and Joe found the jeweler's eyes resting on him meaningly. Flushing, the boy took himself out of earshot and pretended to be absorbed in a store window. Presently his uncle called to him, and they went down the street to Stevenson's shop, and Joe saw that the tight lines around the man's mouth had showed much deeper. Back on the street the blind man was silent, and walked with quick steps beside the dog. Half way home a cloud of dust rode toward them, and Captain Tucker's car came out of the dust. The car stopped. "So you didn't arrest Donovan," said the doctor. The police officer leaned across the wheel. "Joe must have told you he's not in the car." "Nobody had to tell me," Dr. Stone said mildly. "Captain Tucker, with a jewel thief in charge, would not be likely to stop for a chat with a friend. You didn't arrest Donovan?" "N--no. Even though you're reasonably sure a man's guilty, you can't arrest him for robbery unless you have at least some proof. There is no proof--there's nothing. And he has an alibi. He and the maid have their rooms in the same wing of the house. She says she couldn't sleep last night, and sat up and read with her door partly open. She insists Donovan couldn't pass that door without being seen or heard. If the maid's telling the truth, Donovan couldn't be the thief; if she isn't telling the truth, they're both in it. Anyway, if we do arrest Donovan, what about the necklace? If possible we want to recover that." "But you think Donovan did it?" "Well, Doctor, let's give it a look. She admits she never sat up all night reading before. She can't recollect ever leaving her door open before. Now, why did both those things have to happen last night when the safe was robbed?" "It sounds rather convenient," Dr. Stone said. "Too convenient. Too perfect. My idea is that Donovan did the job and the maid is hiding him. I can figure it all out, but I can't pin it on them. That girl's too slick for me. I'm going to call in State troopers. Maybe they'll be able to break down her story." The car was gone with a whine of gears, and Joe stretched his legs and followed his uncle and the dog. Harley Kent's car stood in the driveway. "We're at the Kent place, Uncle David." "I know." "Are we going in?" "Sometimes," the doctor said cryptically, "it is best to leave a plum hang until it falls." The cane made a brisk gesture. "Tonight, Joe." To the boy the night was a long way off. A crime had been committed in the neighborhood, almost under their noses, and the scene of the crime drew him with an excited, morbid curiosity. Late in the afternoon he walked back to the Kent place and loitered outside the hedge. He was there when a car drove in and two State troopers got out. Lean and trim in their belted uniforms, they looked competent and formidable; and his eyes, fascinated, clung to the bulges at their hips. An hour later they came out of the house, and Donovan was with them. The chauffeur was still with them when the car rolled away. Joe ran for home. "Uncle David! They've arrested Donovan." "Tucker?" "No; State troopers. I saw them take him away." "I expected it," Dr. Stone said mildly. Joe, watching him, was presently aware that he slept peacefully in the depths of the porch chair. So can the blind, shut out from the light of the world, in turn shut out the world and drop off into almost instant slumber. But at supper time the man was vividly awake. The strong, supple hands that had made him a surgeon, were suddenly restless and nervous. "Joe," he said, "change those hard leather shoes to soft sneakers. Leather soles make too much noise." The order had a sound of mystery and adventure. Joe raced upstairs to his room. When he came down the day was gone and darkness lay over the countryside. Lady was already harnessed. Out in the road the boy held to his uncle's arm and hurried along. Here, walking into a wall of night, he would by himself have to go slowly. But to his uncle the night presented no change, nor did it bring up any new handicap. For to Dr. Stone the world was always dark and black. There was no day or night. Kent's car was gone from the driveway. Dr. Stone said: "Easy, Joe; walk on the grass. Any lights?" "Only in the back." It seemed to the boy that his uncle made a sound of satisfaction. The dog, as though sensing the man's desire for caution, led them slowly, silently. Dr. Stone's cane touched the tree. "Lady!" His voice was low. The dog was all attention. "Lady, search. Fetch." Joe was conscious of the black bulk of the house, a black tower that was the tree, and a blurred shadow moving noiselessly in the grass. Minutes passed, and his heart pounded in his chest. One moment the dog was near him, and the next it was gone. And then the shadow stood motionless beside his uncle. "Lady, again," Dr. Stone urged. "Search. Fetch." For what? Joe racked his brain and tried to find an answer. Once he heard the soft sniff of the dog, but could not see it. Suddenly it was beside his uncle again, motionless as before. How long it had been there he did not know. "We'll go to the house now," Dr. Stone said. They crossed to the porch and rang the bell. The living room was all at once alight, and Harley Kent opened the door. "I thought you might be along, Doctor. Come in; come in. It looks as though we've cleared this thing up." "Then the necklace was recovered?" Dr. Stone asked. "No--not exactly. They'll sweat Donovan and make him come through. They took him away this afternoon." "So I heard," the doctor said without emotion. "Under arrest?" "Technically, no. They took him down for questioning, but--you know how those things are worked. Keep after him until he opens up and then book him. The maid slipped." "The maid?" "Yes. They dragged it out of her a little at a time. Donovan wanted her to marry him. Yesterday he urged her to marry him and leave for the West at once. That sounded suspicious, Doctor. With so many now out of work, why should a man marry and at once throw up his job? To do this he'd have to have quite a bit of money--and Donovan didn't have any. Or else he'd have to know how he could raise money very quickly. Get it?" "Perfectly." "So we sent out the maid and brought in Donovan. He had a smug answer to the reason for that trip to the West. A friend owned a taxi company in a western city and wanted him to come on and take the job of manager." "He had this friend's letter, of course?" Harley Kent laughed. "You're not as easily fooled as that, Doctor? Of course not. Said he had lost it. So the troopers took him away." "That's that," Dr. Stone said after a silence. "Exactly. And a lucky thing the girl talked. Up to that point we had nothing. No finger prints, no sign as to how the window had been forced, no sign of the necklace. Nothing but an open window and an open safe. It was as though a bird had flown in and had flown off with the jewels." "A bird," Dr. Stone said slowly, and tapped his cane against the floor. "Nobody thought of that seriously though?" "A bird?" Harley Kent stared. To Joe's amazement, his uncle appeared in earnest. "Because if they had taken a bird seriously the next step----" "The next step what?" Harley Kent demanded sharply. The cane had ceased to tap the floor. "The next step," Dr. Stone said softly, "would be to look where a bird would naturally fly with such a bauble." Something electric, something unsaid, hung in the air, and Joe shook with a strange chill. Whatever that something was, it spoke to Lady. The dog grew restless and growled in its throat. "I think we'll be going, Kent," said the doctor. "Good night," said Harley Kent. Joe clung to his uncle's arm and swallowed with difficulty. A hundred feet down the road the man halted. "Can you see the house from here?" "Yes, sir." "Tell me when the downstairs lights go out." The man found his pipe and struck a match to the bowl. A whippoorwill called musically through the night, and distance softened the hoot of an owl. Frogs croaked in a meadow and a rabbit stirred in the brush. Joe shifted from foot to foot, and wondered what was to come next. Twice cars passed them going into town, and off over the hill a dog howled. And then, without warning, the oblongs of downstairs windows disappeared and the roof was a dark patch against the sky. "The lights are out," the boy whispered. Dr. Stone put away the pipe. "Joe, you'd better run home." The boy had not expected this. "But----" "Sorry, Joe. I can handle this better alone. You might only be in the way. Run along, and I'll tell you all about it in the morning." "But if----" "No ifs. Lady's here, and I'll be perfectly all right. Off, now." Without another word the boy trudged away. Once he looked back, and could just distinguish his uncle's form. Again he looked back, and man and dog were gone. His steps slowed and ceased. He stood listening. The whippoorwill had ceased to call, and only the chorus of frogs broke the stillness of the night. By and by he moved again, back the way he had come. The sneaks made his progress almost soundless. Had Uncle David told him to wear them so that they could go unnoticed to the pine tree? Why the tree? Man and dog were gone from where he had left them. The tree lingered in his mind. Avoiding the driveway he crept across the grass. A dark pillar, darker than the night, loomed ahead. It was the tree. He dropped to the ground and, hugging his knees, sat there and was almost afraid to breathe. There was no moon, and the gloom was filled with subtle alarms. Donovan was probably in a cell, caged and helpless. What would happen to the maid? And why that intangible something that had hung between Uncle David and Harley Kent? He grew cramped and shifted his position. It must be late. Where was his uncle? He strained his eyes toward the tree but could see nothing. Suddenly every faculty was sharpened and drawn tight. He thought he had heard a sound. Slowly he relaxed. It must have been the wind. And then he heard it again. This time there could be no mistake. There had been a subdued, almost indistinct scraping. Silence again, and darkness, and that vague alarm. The silence grew painful. A leaf, fluttering down, touched his face and a chill ran through his bones. Why should a leaf fall from a tree in early spring? And then the stillness was broken by a ringing call: "Kent, it's no go." A voice strangled and strained, came down out of the tree. "Who the devil are you?" "Dr. Stone. You can't get away with it, Kent. Tell them any story you like, but be sure you have Donovan released at once. Lady, home!" Man and dog emerged out of the night, and Joe flattened out and hugged the ground. "Come along, Joe," the doctor said. The boy stood up, abashed, and took his uncle's arm. "How did you know I was there?" "Ears--a blind man's ears. When you came in Lady remained quiet. That meant she recognized someone she trusted. There could be only one answer--you. Do you realize you might have ruined everything? That's why I sent you home. One suspicious sound from outside the house and our quarry might have taken alarm." Joe wet his lips. "It was Mr. Kent?" "Of course. Donovan? I had my doubts from the start. Kent told a smooth story. He had had to give Donovan the combination, and the safe had been opened by combination. It was a tall man's safe, and Donovan was a tall man. It fitted together perfectly, Joe--too perfectly. Remember when I asked Kent to lead me to the door? I wanted to learn something--and I learned it. Kent is a tall man, too. I might have asked you, but to a boy all men seem tall." "The maid's story was perfect, too," Joe said hesitatingly. "Two perfect stories," Dr. Stone agreed. "It became a matter of picking the true from the false, and Kent rang false from the start." "I don't understand, Uncle David." "Let's analyze it. When Kent came to the house Lady sneezed and drew away. Two weeks ago I upset a bottle of bay rum; it ran into her eyes and nose. She's been shy of bay rum since. When Kent said he'd lost his lighter and asked for a match he reeked with bay rum and talcum. The maid had awakened him at six o'clock, and he reached our house at eight. Two striking facts, Joe. Does a man, finding his house robbed in the night, calmly go upstairs and make a careful toilet? Does he wait two hours before going to a telephone to call the police? "Well, we went to his place. He wasn't home, and we wandered about the grounds. That was pure luck. We found the wet suit. I asked you if there was a pine tree on the place." "Why, Uncle David?" "Because that suit reeked with pine. We found that the tree was only six feet from the house and heavy-branched, which meant that some of the branches grew close to the house. And so now we had a robbery in the rain, a pine tree, and a dripping suit of Harley Kent's that reeked with pine. The facts were all unrelated, but I began to wonder if the tree had played a part in the robbery. "Then Kent came back, and his first thought was to look in the wet suit for the missing lighter. When I mentioned the suit on the line he said nothing to indicate alarm. But a blind man's ears are sharp. They are quick to catch shades of sound in a voice. I knew he was disturbed because we had chanced upon that suit. Now, why should he be upset? Wet clothing is not uncommon after a wild rainstorm. "We went to town for tobacco, and ran into Tom Bloodgood. That was another stroke of luck. For Bloodgood told me Kent had called him to the house to value a necklace. The jewelry market has fallen this last year, and Tom gave Kent a valuation of about $15,000. The moment Bloodgood told me that I thought I saw the picture. "Kent's a market speculator. Evidently he had been hit and needed money. Apparently he didn't want to have the necklace appraised in New York where he was fairly well known--such things leak out and sometimes affect a man's credit. After he learned what the necklace would bring in the market he must have done some thinking. If he sold it, he'd realize $15,000. If it were stolen he'd collect $25,000 from the insurance company. The reason he had shaved and waited two hours to call the police took on significance. It began to look as though Kent had staged a convenient robbery. Collect for the jewels and still have them. Later he might break up the necklace and sell the pearls separately. It's been done before." "Why didn't you tell Captain Tucker, Uncle David?" "Oh, no. Tucker would have immediately searched the tree, and Kent could have got the incriminating suit out of the way and made the charge that Donovan had hidden the necklace in the pine. There was only one way. Scare Kent. Send him out into the tree in a panic. And then catch him in the act. "So tonight we called upon Kent. I was searching for a way to alarm him, and he opened the door himself by mentioning birds. The moment I spoke of a search of a tree he froze. After that it was merely a matter of waiting for him to come forth to remove the proof of his guilt." They were almost at Joe's house. The boy turned a puzzled thought in his mind. "But, Uncle David----" "Yes." "Even if there was pine on his coat it wouldn't be proof he'd been in a pine tree." "True," Dr. Stone agreed. "That's what sent me searching for the absolute proof." Light broke upon the boy. "I see it now. You found something?" "This." The man held out his hand. In the darkness the boy could not see what lay in the hand. "What is it, Uncle David?" "The missing cigar lighter," Dr. Stone said quietly. "It fell out of Kent's pocket while he was hiding the jewels. Lady found it for me under the tree." VOICES IN THE NIGHT "Go on ahead, Joe," Dr. David Stone said. "The boat will probably need bailing. I'll have Jerry fix your rod. Won't take ten minutes." Joe Morrow gripped the can of worms and was gone. Dr. Stone said, "Right, Lady," and, gripping the harness-handle, followed the dog toward Jerry Moore's garage. Sound came to the doctor's ears--the rasp of a tool and, abruptly, the sharp tapping of a finger against glass. The dog deftly steered him around an automobile. Jerry's voice came from under the car. "That you, Doctor?" "Yes." "Thought those were Lady's paws. With you in a few minutes." Dr. Stone moved toward the little office. A voice said, "He's blind, Rog." The tapping had stopped. But well able to hear, the doctor thought with grim humor, and listened from the doorway. Voices came from the garage floor--Jerry Moore's, the nervous voice that had said, "He's blind, Rog," and the mellow, genial tones of a third man. "This brake-rod"--grunt--"sure was loose." That was Jerry. "Quite a contraption you've got under here." "My own idea," the genial voice said. "Why smear up a car when you can pack them where they're out of the way?" The job was done, and presently the car backed out of the garage. Jerry came to the office. "What won't folks think up next?" he demanded. "Fishing fellows, those two who just went out. Stopping off to try Horseshoe Lake. Got a long metal box bolted in under the floor boards. Out of sight and out of the way. Got room in that box for a hundred pounds along with ice." "Fish?" Dr. Stone asked a trifle sharply. The garageman cackled. "Sure; a regular ice-box on wheels. How come they pick here for fishing? Nobody's taken a bass out of Horseshoe in years, and danged few pickerel. Want that rod mended?" A horn blew at the pumps. Jerry put the rod down and hurried outside, and Dr. Stone walked to the door. A hoarse voice said: "Two quarts of medium." A moment later the voice rasped harshly: "Get away from that hood. Can't you see I've brought a can for the oil?" "Easy, brother," Jerry soothed. "No harm done." "Keep away from the hood, that's all." The car rolled away, and filled the night with the low, smooth thunder of its exhaust. The doctor's ears registered and catalogued sounds. Only a high-priced motor could sound like that--and only a piece of tin could rattle as the car rattled. A queer intentness twitched at the corners of the blind man's mouth. "That's queer," Jerry observed. "Two cars in a row, and they both had something hidden. This last boiler was all of seven-eight years old, and shabby as a beggar's coat. Had something under that hood, though, he was powerful anxious for no one to see. What do you make of it, Doctor?" "Coincidence," the doctor said mildly. Two cars, and each with something hidden. Lady's tail thumped the floor, and Joe Morrow came into the office and stood around. The doctor's ears, registering an unseen world by sound, caught the tempo of the boy's restless feet. Bursting with something, the blind man decided. The rod mended at last, man and boy and dog came out to the street, and Lady led them toward the lake. Joe's voice trembled. "A car pulled out just as I came back, Uncle David. You know that cobbled road that runs off from Main street, and goes down into the hollow behind the cottonwoods and rises to the back door of the bank?" "The road the express wagon uses when it takes money to and from the bank?" "Yes, sir." The boy swallowed with a gulp. "I saw that car in there twice today, just sort of hanging around." An automobile, making speed, went up the street with a low drone of power. "There she goes now," Joe cried, excited. "A wonderful motor," said Dr. Stone. "That's just it, Uncle David. A shabby old car with a pip of a motor. What for? A quick getaway?" The doctor whistled softly under his breath, and said nothing. Through the black, moonless night Lady led them at her fast pace to an opening in the reeds and out upon planking that led to the boats. Joe got in first, steadied the craft, and helped in his uncle. The boy rowed with an almost soundless stroke, and presently shipped the oars and dropped anchor. And then they waited for the catfish to bite. Joe marked Main street by a reflected ribbon of radiance thrown against the night sky. Water lapped against the boat, and moving lights crawled across the distant toll-bridge. Dr. Stone said, "Not much action, Joe," and the headlights of a car swept toward the lake. They stopped near the planking and snapped out. By and by oars creaked and splashed loudly, a dark shape moved toward the toll-bridge, and voices came across the water. "Why the toll-bridge, Rog?" the sharp voice asked. "Use your head," the genial voice answered. "There's plenty of light down there. Somebody may see us trying to haul in a big one." "You're sure of the time?" "We got the word, didn't we?" "Fast work," the sharp voice said dubiously. "Well, why not?" A genial chuckle came across the water. "Everybody knows you couldn't get a decent fish out of this lake with a dragnet. So we pull out." The oars splashed and creaked, and the sharp voice was lost. And then the genial voice came again: "We'll pull out about five, roll up and get in line, step on the gas, and make Baltimore in time for breakfast. After that, let John try to find us." Joe got a bite and missed his fish. So these two men, whoever they were, planned to play hide and seek with somebody named John. But his mind, presently, came back to the shabby car with the powerful motor that had hidden itself twice in the cobbled road behind the cottonwoods where it could not be seen from Main street. "What do you think that car was doing there, Uncle David?" the boy asked. "If I knew," Dr. Stone said dryly, "I'd be able to give more attention to this fishing-line." A tingling tremor ran along the boy's spine. So Uncle David thought that strange car worth worrying about! Lady moved in the boat, and the flat-bottomed craft pitched and wobbled. The fish weren't biting, and the dog was probably cramped. The boy pulled up the anchor. A steady, rhythmic splashing came through the night. "They're rowing back," Dr. Stone said. Joe's oars made scarcely a ripple. Tied up at the planking, he shipped the oars before helping his uncle from the boat. "No fish and a million mosquito bites," the doctor drawled, and they went up the soggy path through the reeds. Oars rattled behind them and somebody stamped on the planking. A car was parked in the high grass above the rutted road that paralleled the lake; even in the darkness there was a lustrous sheen of paint and of shining metal. One of Lady's harness straps had loosened. The doctor bent down to draw it tight, and footsteps came up the planking. "Rog!" The sharp voice snapped. "There's somebody at the car." "Don't move!" The genial voice was all at once icy and deadly. "If you've been monkeying----" Joe shivered. Lady, as though recognizing the threat in that voice, had become stiff and taut. The boy's hand, feeling for her, met the bristling hairs along her spine. Dr. Stone stood up. "No threats, if you please," he said coolly. Joe marveled that, blind, his uncle could face this unknown hazard with unruffled calm. But then, of course, there was Lady. The dog was like a tempered spring, wound. The man called Rog flew into a rage. "None of your soft talk. What are you doing at that car? By God, if----" Lady gave an ominous, warning growl. The threat stopped as though a gag had been rammed down the speaker's throat. "It's the blind man, Rog," the sharp voice said; "the blind man and a boy." Lady continued to growl a deep warning. A form backed away quickly, and the deadly chill went out of Rog's voice, and he was genial and mellow. "A thousand apologies, sir. The business of jacking up a car and stealing the tires has become so widespread----. You understand, sir?" "Perfectly," Dr. Stone said blandly, and quieted the dog. The car backed around and lurched through the ruts, but not until it was well on its way were the lights turned on. "What did they look like?" Dr. Stone asked. "I couldn't see their faces," the boy answered; "it was too dark." "What make of car?" "I'm not sure." "No matter." The doctor spoke to Lady and the dog, sure-footed, led them through the night. Jerry Moore was closing the garage and Ike Boles, the station agent, gave them a toothless grin. "Hear about the telegram that came this afternoon, Doctor? Fellow named John's glad to hear the fishing's good and aims to come up tomorrow on the 8:11 from New York." Memory jingled the wires in Joe's brain. Was this the same John Rog and his companion were anxious to avoid? "Somebody," Dr. Stone said mildly, "is evidently playing a little joke on John. Who was the telegram for, Ike?" "Fellow named Carl Metz. Can't find hide or hair of him hereabouts. Telegram's lying undelivered at the station. Anybody hear tell of a Carl Metz?" The intent look that Joe knew so well had come to the corners of the doctor's mouth. "Jerry, remember the man with the husky voice who wouldn't let you lift the hood? He had a faint accent. What would you call it?" "German," Jerry said promptly. And Carl Metz was a German name. A slow excitement twitched through Joe's nerves, and he followed his blind uncle and the dog up the quiet street. "Who's the man with the husky voice, Uncle David?" "You've seen him." "Where?" "Hiding a shabby car in the cobbled road." "But----" Heat throbbed in the boy's pulse. "But if he's the one who's expecting John, what about Rog and the other fellow? Why are _they_ running away from this John?" "I don't know--yet," the doctor said. Until late that night he smoked his pipe and paced the porch; and Lady, who read the signs of his unrest, gave the short whine of a worried dog and watched him narrowly. In the morning, when he awoke, Joe had already gone to school. Mrs. Morrow said: "Joe seemed frightfully excited about something, David." Tight lines formed about the sightless eyes. Bringing the lawn-mower from the side of the house, he began to cut the grass. The lawn was a map in his mind--so many paces to every walk and shrub. He was running the mower near the front gate when a droning throb of power roared up the road and stopped with a squeal of brakes. "Stranger," said a husky voice, "they tell me there's a bad, little-traveled hill around here." Seconds passed. "Why, yes," the doctor said slowly. "Three miles on there's a fork to the right; it takes you to Kill Horse Hill." "Pretty steep?" "It's downright wicked." "Any chance," the hoarse voice asked, "of running into other cars out there?" "None," the doctor assured him; and abruptly the car, rattling loosely, was gone. The blind man pushed the mower aside and walked thoughtfully to the porch. At noon Joe arrived, breathless. "Uncle David! I took a look into the cobbled road before school this morning. That car was there again, hidden behind the cottonwoods." "I think," Dr. Stone said, "I'll walk into town this afternoon." Something dark and sinister was going on under cover, and it was time somebody spoke to Police Captain Tucker and the bank. Lady, as though sensing a need for speed, led him toward the village at a pace faster than the pace of a man with sight. Suddenly heavy, rapid footfalls grew loud and clear. Somebody was running with mad haste. Somebody----? The doctor's ears, sharp as only a blind man's are sharp, picked a familiar rhythm from the furious stride. "Joe! Why aren't you at school?" The boy panted. "Wanted--to tell you--the bank----" Breath failed him. "Robbed?" Dr. Stone demanded sharply. "The--express wagon. Had money--for the bank--that came in--on No. 5." "The cobbled road?" "Yes, sir." The boy's breath was easier. "In that hollow behind the cottonwoods that you can't see from Main street. Captain Tucker was in the wagon with the driver. When they got into the hollow there was a man lying in a pool of blood. They jumped out, and it was only a stuffed figure, and the blood was red paint. Somebody they couldn't see said to put up their hands, and Captain Tucker started to spin around and a shot knocked off his cap." "And after that he kept his hands up?" "Yes, sir. Next thing a bag was over his head and one over the driver's, and they were tied up and chucked into the truck. By and by somebody found them and the money was gone." "Much?" "Twenty-two thousand dollars. They're looking for that shabby car." "I don't think they'll have to look far," Dr. Stone said grimly. "Lady, forward." Again the rapid pace that ate up distance. "What time did the hold-up happen, Joe?" "Twenty of twelve." "Twenty--You're positive of that?" "That's what everybody says. No. 5 got in at half-past eleven. Gosh, Uncle David, if we had told Captain Tucker last night about that car----" "I don't think it would have made any difference," the doctor said slowly. The blind eyes had puckered again with a queer expression of baffled uncertainty. Opposite the garage he spoke to Lady, and the dog, obedient, led him in toward the pumps. "Jerry about?" The mechanic answered. "No, Doctor; had to go up-country with the wrecker to bring down a busted car. Hear about the hold-up?" "Yes. Any talk about the getaway?" "Nobody saw a car come up out of that road, Doctor. Tucker doesn't know. He had a bag over his head, and the express engine was running, and, lying on the floor, all he could hear was his own motor. Looks like whoever planned it, planned it neat." "About twenty-two thousand dollars?" "Twenty-eight thousand. Everybody had it twenty-two thousand at first, but it was twenty-eight thousand. Twenty thousand in paper money, and eight thousand in silver." "In silver?" The doctor stood very still and broke into an almost soundless whistle. Joe's heart hammered against his ribs. He knew the sign--his uncle's mind, back in its shroud of darkness, had touched something tangible and significant. Quietly, after a long minute of thought, the blind man walked into the office, groped about the desk for the telephone, and called the railroad station. "Ike, this is Dr. Stone. Did you find Carl Metz and deliver the telegram?" "I did not. I can't find a man of the name." "Did this man John arrive?" "If he did he's a ghost. I watched the train for a look at who it might be was coming to Horseshoe for good fishing, and not a stranger got off." "What time did his train get in?" "Eleven-thirty." Dr. Stone's voice snapped into the transmitter. "Is that the train that leaves New York at 8:11?" "The same," said Ike; "No. 5 on the train-sheet, and the money that was stolen in the baggage car." The receiver went back upon the hook. The blind man was on his feet. "What time is it, Joe?" "Half-past two." "If we hurry----" The doctor was out the door, following Lady at an amazingly fast pace. Joe had to half run. "Where are we going, Uncle David?" "To the toll-bridge." Horseshoe Lake rippled with golden sun. Sid Malloy, the bridge-tender, collected toll and Captain Tucker, grim and dour, with a ghastly black hole in the top of his cap, inspected the inside of every car. He frowned at sight of Dr. Stone, the boy and the dog. "Doctor," he said bluntly, "this is no place for a blind man; and as for a boy----" "Go inside, Joe," the doctor said mildly. "Keep out of the way. If trouble starts, duck low and hug the floor. Is your gun handy, Captain?" "I always have my gun," Captain Tucker growled. "Presently I may speak to one of the cars that stops to pay toll. Never mind questions. Have your gun out and cover that car." The captain had had a bad day and was nettled. "Wild west stuff?" he asked. "You wouldn't want the next bullet to go a little lower than your cap, would you, Captain?" Joe sucked in a gasping breath. If there was shooting, what chance would a blind man stand? The question had a sobering effect, and the police captain's voice shed some of its bad wire. "You're waiting for a car, Doctor?" "Yes." "What kind of car?" "I don't know." "Can you describe whoever'll be in it?" "No." Temper flamed suddenly in the harassed man. "Look here, Doctor, if you don't know what car it is, or what whoever's in it looks like, you'd better leave this business for those----" "Who can see?" Doctor Stone asked mildly. "Sometimes the blindest persons have eyes." A car stopped at the toll-house and, while Sid Malloy collected the toll, Captain Tucker opened the doors and inspected the inside. A clock in a village church tower struck three, and the midafternoon traffic thickened and converged upon the bridge. Cars rolled upon the bridge approach, and stopped, and rolled on again, and the sound was like the beat of some large machine. Forgotten by Captain Tucker, for there was much work to be done and the police officer was busy probing into automobiles, Dr. Stone and Lady stood just outside the toll-house door. The smoke of a seasoned pipe drifted blue and fragrant with the breeze. Joe, trembling inside the toll-house, could see his uncle's face. It was stamped with the calm, bland, inscrutable patience of the blind. Automobiles shuttled past, and there was a delay as each car was scrutinized. A line formed, and horns began to honk impatiently. Joe, twisting his head to see how far back the line extended, was frozen by the cold crack of his uncle's voice. "I'm ready for you, Tucker." The boy wrenched himself around. The movement had changed his position; the sun, slanting in through the doorway, was in his eyes. The blurred outline of a car was in front of the house, and he was conscious of his uncle moving toward the car. Fire burned in his throat, and the world hung in a stark silence. And out of that silence came his uncle's voice. "Rog," Dr. Stone drawled, "I'm afraid you're going to miss your breakfast in Baltimore tomorrow." There was an oath and a movement in the car. Joe, frozen, forgot to crouch and hug the floor. When would the shooting start? And then another form was beside his uncle, and the sun glinted menacingly on cold, blue steel. "Keep your hands up where I can see them," Captain Tucker ordered. Joe, sick with relief, felt his knees begin to buckle and bend. Two hours later he sat in a room in the red-bricked Town Hall with his uncle and Captain Tucker. The captain, putting down a telephone, leaned far back in his chair and gave a sigh. "That was New York calling," he announced. "They've picked up John. He worked for the New York bank that shipped the money. The bank here has counted the shipment and it's all there down to the last nickel." His eyes went slowly from the boy to the dog and to the blind man. "Doctor, I don't know how you did it. We were all looking for that shabby car----" "That car had me fooled for a while," Dr. Stone admitted. "Joe had me convinced it was motored for a quick getaway. This morning the car stopped at our place and the driver asked for directions. He wanted a bad hill, and I sent him to Kill Horse. When Joe came along with news of the hold-up, I started here to tell you where that car could be found; but when I learned that the hold-up took place at twenty minutes of twelve the shabby car was washed right out of the picture." "Why?" Captain Tucker demanded. "Because within a minute or two of 11:40 the driver of that car was asking me for directions. He couldn't have been in two places at once." "Why were you sure it was the shabby car?" "A blind man's ears, Captain--the sound of the motor and the driver's husky voice. And all at once I knew why he had surrounded himself with so much mystery--afraid to have Jerry Moore look under the hood, hiding down behind the cottonwoods when he did lift the hood, anxious to find a steep hill little used by other cars. The man was, without question, experimenting with a carburetor of his own design, and afraid somebody would get a slant at it before he was ready to have it patented." Captain Tucker pursed his lips and rocked in his chair. "I follow you that far, Doctor, but how did you pick up Rog?" "I didn't," Dr. Stone said mildly; "he dropped into my lap. Let's begin at the beginning. I met Rog and his companion at Jerry's garage, and Jerry had seen that storage-box under the car. It struck me as strange that a fisherman should try to keep fish fresh by placing them under a car and next to a red-hot exhaust pipe. Later, while Joe and I were on the lake----" "That was last night?" the captain interrupted. "Yes. A boat passed us; I recognized the voices of Rog and his friend. I learned that they knew there were few fish in the lake. Now, why had these men come prepared to pack fish in ice if they knew there were no fish? I found they planned to leave today--roll into line about three o'clock, they said--and that they wanted to avoid somebody named John. Coming ashore, Ike Boles told us of a telegram that had come from John. Now, if this was their John, why should they tell him the fishing was good if they knew it wasn't? On the other hand, the telegram was directed to a Carl Metz, and nobody knew a Carl Metz. Who was Carl Metz? The driver of the shabby car spoke with a German accent. Was he Carl Metz? If so, why was he never seen fishing? The thing was rather complicated." "I don't see yet how you figured it out," Captain Tucker complained. "I didn't," Dr. Stone chuckled. "It burst upon me. After the elimination of the shabby car, Rog lingered in my mind. I stopped at Jerry's garage; talking to Jerry might bring forth some overlooked fact that might prove illuminating. But Jerry was not there, and his mechanic dropped a bomb-shell--there was eight thousand dollars in silver in the stolen money. I began to wonder if there might be two Johns: the John who sent a telegram from New York, and the John whom Rog mentioned, an entirely different John----" "You mean----" Captain Tucker broke in suddenly. "Yes; John Law. The crook's name for the police. Why should they run from the police? Was it this hold-up? Eight thousand dollars in silver is something you cannot hide in your vest pocket or under your hat. They wouldn't ride with it thrown into a car; a police drag-net would probably be searching cars. That silver would have to be carried where it would defy search. Where better than a storage-box hidden away under a car, particularly if we remember two things: First, these men had said it was an ice-box for fish. Second, they knew they weren't going to get any fish. It held together except for one weak link." "What was that?" "Had they received word from New York that this money was coming? That stuffed figure lying in the cobbled road meant just one thing--the highwaymen not only knew that money was coming but they knew it was coming on No. 5. In order to know that they must have received a message. That telegram came into the puzzle again. I called Ike Boles. He had not found Carl Metz; he had watched the train that should have brought John and no stranger had got off. John had said he would leave New York on the 8:11. The 8:11 was No. 5." Captain Tucker scratched a puzzled head. "But if nobody got that message----" "Captain, let's suppose they know whatever message was sent would be filed in New York at a certain time. What better safeguard than to send it to a name unknown here? What's to prevent the one to whom that message is really intended loitering about the station and listening for it to click into the office?" "You're assuming they know telegraphy?" "I wasn't assuming, captain; I knew. Last night, when I walked into Jerry's while he was looking over that storage-box, fingers began to tap a window. It was a message. It said: 'Too much attention; let's scram.' I knew those men could read Morse." Captain Tucker stood up. "Doctor, any time you'd like a job as a detective----" He broke off short. "What made you so sure they wouldn't make their getaway up-country?" "I heard Rog say they'd roll into line. There's only one spot in this village where a car has to roll into line. That's at the toll-bridge." Out in the village street Dr. Stone filled his pipe and puffed contentedly. Rog's car stood in the police driveway beside the Town Hall; and the steel storage-box, wrenched loose by crowbar and hammer, lay upon the ground. "You took a chance, Uncle David," Joe said hoarsely. "If that car had slipped past----" "Rog threatened us on the lake path last night," the blind doctor said mildly. "If I had released the harness-grip Lady would have torn him down. I knew only two persons in town who had met the car, or Rog: Jerry, and he was up-country. You; but it was dark last night and you wouldn't have recognized the car. That put it up to Lady." Joe blinked. "If you owned a dog," Dr. Stone went on, "it would be your dog. I'm blind. Lady knows it. Lady believes she owns me, and she never forgets. To her Rog will always mean danger--to me." "Oh!" Light broke upon the boy. "Then Lady----" "Yes," said Dr. Stone. "I knew when Rog's car stopped at the toll-house. Lady growled." THE UNKNOWN FOUR Dr. David Stone, walking rapidly beside Lady, seemed unaware of the penetrating chill of the pale, thin dawn. His broad shoulders swung with his stride, his coat was open, and no hat covered the white hair of his magnificently-formed head. But Joe Morrow, his nephew, huddled down into a turtle-neck sweater and shivered. "Joe," said Dr. Stone, "I shouldn't have let you come along on this. You've never seen a dead man before." Chill shook the boy's teeth. "A dead man can't hurt anybody." "True; but this may be nasty business. Captain Tucker says old Anthony was murdered." The boy sucked in his breath and was momentarily sorry the telephone that had called his uncle had awakened him. Crows, cawing faintly, loomed against the early light of the cold sky. The grass was wet, and saturated the bottoms of his trousers. "They--they don't know who did it?" "That's the trouble, Joe. So many persons might have wanted to." Since turning into Meadow Road the doctor had been counting paces, and now his voice changed abruptly. "We should be near there." "It's right ahead, Uncle David." Dr. Stone said, "Lady, left," and the great, tawny dog turned obediently. They went up a weed-bordered path to a house that had once been noble, but which now lay in peeled-paint neglect. Captain Tucker let them in. Four men sat in a room off the hall, and they watched the doorway in silence as Dr. Stone and the dog appeared. Joe, crowding at his uncle's heels, was conscious of a studied ease and a cautious wariness in all of them. He identified them as Police Captain Tucker made them known to the blind man--Ted Lawton, marked by a certain furtiveness; Ran Freeman, cool and self-contained; Fred Waring, silently grim, and Otis King, dapper and assured. Lady, restless on her leash, suddenly gave an eerie, dismal whine. Waring flared. "Stop that confounded dog." "She knows," Dr. Stone said quietly, "that there has been death here--by violence." Ice ran in Joe's veins. Otis King lit a cigarette and calmly meditated the glowing end. The doctor said, "Lady, chair," and the dog led him to a seat. Freeman, sitting on a stool in front of a piano, dropped one arm and the elbow awoke a crashing, jangling chord. Lawton jumped. "Did you have to do that?" "Better take something for your nerves," Freeman said mildly, and ran one hand soundlessly over the keys of the piano. Captain Tucker's voice bit into the silence. "One of you four has every right to be nervous." He turned to Dr. Stone. "I sent for you, Doctor, because I am baffled. All four of these men came here late yesterday. Cagge says----" "Who's Cagge?" the doctor broke in. "Old Anthony Fitch's servant. He says all four quarreled violently with Anthony last night, and that the old man cackled at them, and goaded them, and invited them to remain so that today the comedy could be resumed. About eleven o'clock he went off to bed, holding to Cagge's arm, after telling the servant to show the visitors to rooms." "And then?" the doctor asked. "Cagge says he awoke about three o'clock this morning and heard groans. He went to Anthony's room, and there he found the old man crumpled on his bed. He had been struck on the temple by a heavy brass candlestick that lay on the floor. Cagge says he tried to speak, and muttered one word several times before he died." "That word was?" "Four. Over and over again. 'Four, four, four.' What do you make of it?" Slowly Doctor Stone filled a pipe, struck a match, and puffed in unhurried contemplation. "It may be, Tucker, he meant that all four were concerned in his murder." Otis King laughed. "Doctor," he said easily, "that shot misses the target. There isn't one of us trusts any of the other three. You couldn't get us into a combine." "You must know each other," the doctor observed. Fred Waring jumped angrily to his feet. "Look here, Doctor----" Lady growled deep in her throat, and Waring slumped into a chair and watched the dog. "Then," Dr. Stone said slowly, "if all of you are not concerned, one man's hand is stained with blood." Freeman still continued to run his hand soundlessly across the keys. Lawton gave the doctor a quick, sidelong glance, and stared down at the floor. "Which one?" King asked coolly; and now, for the first time Joe noticed that he alone, of the four in the room, was fully dressed. Dr. Stone's hand touched the dog's head. "I may tell you--later. First, I should like to know how all of you happened to arrive here yesterday. Did the old man invite you?" "No," Otis King drawled; "but I rather fancy he expected us. Did you know he was writing a book? It was to be one of those brutally frank things--fire the gun and let the shots hit whom they may. Anthony dropped each of us a letter. We were to be in the book. So, knowing Anthony, we all raced for the Grand Central and met on the same train." "And killed him," Dr. Stone said. "Some one did," King admitted blandly. "And I'm not denying that any of the four of us had reason to do the job." Fred Waring spoke bitterly. "You always did talk too much, Otis." He lapsed into silence, and presently spoke to the doctor. "If you knew Anthony Fitch--" "Perhaps I do," the doctor said mildly. "For several years he was mixed up in shady transactions, but managed to stay just inside the law. Slippery, and clever, and unscrupulous." "That was Anthony on the outside," Waring said passionately. "Inside he was vindictive, and cold, and merciless. Those claw-like hands of his were the talons of a hawk. He took a pleasure in refined torture. Years ago we were all tied up with him, and--" "You don't have to go into that," Ted Lawton cried warningly. "I'm not going to. Anyway, we broke away, and one of his schemes failed. He told us then that some day he'd pay the score. Lately he set out to write a book. It was to be called 'Confessions of a Rascal.'" "I see." The doctor's face was expressionless. "Naturally, you gentlemen objected to being included in the book." Waring ripped out an oath. "He had gone back fifteen years to rake open old sores. God, man, do you know what that meant? We thought we had lived down those old mistakes. We had established ourselves. I am cashier at a manufacturing plant. King is manager of a branch brokerage house. Lawton is in business for himself. Ran Freeman is engaged to marry Lilly Panner----" Dr. Stone sat up straight. "The Calico Heiress?" Freeman's fingers still played imaginary music. "Exactly, Doctor," he said quietly. "The newspapers have made the family fairly well known. Fine old traditions--that sort of thing. Let this book of Anthony's appear and my marriage to Miss Panner would be overboard." "And with it the Panner fortune," the doctor observed dryly. "That, too," Ran Freeman admitted without emotion. The pipe had gone out. The blind man ran the bowl absently along one sleeve. Dishes clattered in the kitchen. "It seems," the doctor said, "you've given yourself sufficient motive for murder, Freeman." "We all have sufficient motive," Freeman said frankly. "How long could Waring remain a cashier if his past were dug out? How long would King be manager of a brokerage house? How long would Lawton have enough credit left to stay on in his business?" The room fell into silence, and Joe felt sweat on the palms of his hands. These men discussed murder as other men might have talked of the loss of a button from a coat. Dr. Stone put the pipe away and turned his sightless eyes toward the spot from which Waring's voice had sounded. "You say Anthony wrote you?" "All of us. A devilish letter telling what was going into the book concerning us. Do you get that? Paying off, after all these years, the old score; ramming in the knife and turning it around. Giving us the prospect of months of anticipation and worry waiting for the book to appear. So we came up here----" "And threatened him?" the doctor asked. "Yes," Waring answered after a momentary hesitation. "He laughed at us. He said the only way to stop that book was to kill him, and invited us to do it. He said there was a blind man in the village with the very devil of a dog and that the man who killed him would be tracked down." Waring's voice rose. "But, for once, Anthony was wrong. He forgot----" The passionate flow of words stopped with startling suddenness. "What did he forget?" Dr. Stone asked. Waring said nothing. "Did he forget that there was such a thing as the manuscript being stolen?" Captain Tucker spoke. "What good would that do? The old man could write it again." "Could he?" Dr. Stone mused. "I'm not so sure. A man who has to lean on a servant's arm is a sick man--perhaps a dying man. By the way, Tucker, did you look for the manuscript?" "Yes. He kept it in his bedroom." "And?" "It's gone." "Waring," Dr. Stone said slowly, "you checked yourself too late. So Anthony forgot--and the manuscript _is_ stolen. That unfinished sentence could convict you." "Of what?" Waring snapped. "Of murder. The man who stole that manuscript killed Anthony Fitch." Lady whimpered uneasily, and, in the hard silence, the sound was like the wail of a ghost. Joe's temples throbbed, and he was conscious of Lawton watching his uncle in a sort of bleak dread. Slowly he came to the realization that the blind man, sitting there in a handicap of darkness was the dominating figure in the room. Softly, almost soundlessly, a man wearing an apron appeared from the kitchen. This, the boy guessed, was Cagge. "I've made coffee," the servant announced in a nasal monotone. "Anybody want some?" Freeman's hand came away from the piano. "What's the matter with the bacon and eggs?" Lawton gave a grunt of distaste. "Ugh! Who could eat food now?" "Is Anthony's death supposed to fill any of us with sorrow?" Freeman asked blandly. "Fry mine on both sides," said Otis King. He stretched his legs and smoothed his trousers. "Cagge, you were with Anthony how long?" "Three years." "Any trouble collecting your wages?" Joe saw the servant's face flame. "Trouble? Why, the tight-fisted, old skin-flint----. Do you know how much he's paid me this last year? A couple of dollars here and there when I could wring it out of him. And now he's dead, and where am I going to collect the four hundred dollars he owes me?" "Did you say four hundred dollars, Cagge?" King asked softly. "I said four hundred dollars and I mean four hundred dollars." Like a shadow, almost without sound, the man was gone. The clatter of a pan came from the kitchen. Otis King tapped a cigarette against a silver case. Joe's hands had gone dry. Somewhere in the house a clock struck seven. "Four!" King said thoughtfully. "What would you call that, Doctor, coincidence or--something else? Many a man has killed for less than four hundred dollars." Dr. Stone stood up. Holding to the harness-handle of the dog's leash he spoke to the four men who watched him intently. "Would a murderer first tell that his victim kept muttering 'Four, four,' and then add that the slain man owed him four hundred dollars? Lady, upstairs." The shepherd dog guided him across the room skillfully preventing him from bumping into chairs and furniture. With his feet on the first tread he spoke again. "It wasn't Cagge, gentlemen." "Do you always leap at conclusions?" Otis King asked insolently. "I usually keep off paths other men mark for me," the doctor said quietly. Joe followed his uncle up the staircase. He kept close to the dog, afraid, in this house of terror, of he knew not what. In the upper hall Captain Tucker halted and clutched his arm. "Doctor," he said rapidly, "there was something I did not want to tell you downstairs in front of them. I found something in the room." "Finger prints?" "No; the candle-stick had been wiped clean. A plain, silk handkerchief. It had evidently been used to cover the lower part of the murderer's face. I found it in the center of the floor." Joe saw the familiar tense lines form around his uncle's mouth, and a soundless whistle came from the blind man's lips. "So! I hadn't expected that. King was right. They had reason not to trust one another." "What's that, Doctor?" "Nothing, Captain; nothing. Lead me in." A huddled figure was twisted grotesquely upon the bed. Joe, with a sudden spot of ice in the pit of his stomach, backed out into the hall. Presently there were leisurely footsteps on the stairs, and from inside the room his uncle's voice said, "Lady, trail." The footsteps came on. But the boy's ears were held by the softer pad-pad-pad of the shepherd dog's feet. Lady came out into the hall, ears back and nose close to the floor. Sniffing, she veered this way and that, but went steadily along the passage. And then, suddenly, Joe's heart gave a choked throb, for the tawny shepherd had swung in and came to a stop before a closed door. True to her training, she stopped with her head below the lock; and Dr. Stone, reaching out a groping hand, touched the knob. "Who's room is this?" he asked. "Mine," came Otis King's voice from down the hall. The tense lines were back around the doctor's mouth. "The trail clouds again, Tucker," he said; but Captain Tucker, triumphant, held out the silk handkerchief. "Ever see this before, King?" "No." "It was found near Anthony's body. The dog, taking a scent from it, followed a trail to your door. How you explain that?" "Seeing that this is the first time I've been upstairs, I can't explain it. Cagge brought my bag to this room, but I did not follow. When Anthony went tottering off to bed I went outdoors and tramped the roads for hours." "What for?" Captain Tucker barked. "I was trying," King said, "to hatch a plan by which I might get my hands on that manuscript." "And then you came back, and came up here----" "I came back, but did not come upstairs. I went out again at once." "Still plotting, I suppose?" Captain Tucker said in sarcasm. "No," King said coolly; "the second time I acted. I destroyed Anthony's book." Joe found it hard to swallow. Uncle David said the man who stole the manuscript was the man who had killed! Dr. Stone's face was expressionless: "I thought so." "Look here," King burst out angrily. "I told you I went out. When I came back the house was dark. As I opened the front door I heard someone run up the stairs. I snapped on the light, and a bundle of typed papers lay on the floor. I had to read only half a page to know it was Anthony's manuscript. Would I be apt to tell voluntarily that I destroyed the book if the fact would link me to the murder?" Captain Tucker seemed a bit taken back. Lawton's voice came from downstairs: "Breakfast, Otis." "You might have built this up," Captain Tucker said suspiciously. "I might," King agreed. He was once more dapper and assured. But when he came down stairs to the table, Joe saw that he had hardened into cold watchfulness. Freeman said, "Sorry you won't eat with us, Doctor." Lady, walking restlessly around the table, stopped at Freeman's place and the man offered her a strip of bacon. "Quite a dog, Doctor." "Quite," Dr. Stone agreed; and Joe, reading something in the word, gave his uncle a sharp, expectant glance. Cagge came in from the kitchen with more coffee. His hand shook as he refilled the cups, and the spout of the pot chattered against the china. "Cagge," Dr. Stone said suddenly, "how did you sleep last night?" "I didn't--much," Cagge answered in his nasal monotone. "I didn't like the look of things." "Did you hear anybody go out?" "Yes." The servant put down the pot. "It was blasted queer. I heard somebody go out twice, and I heard somebody come back three times." "That doesn't make sense," Captain Tucker said irritably. "Everything makes sense when you understand it," the blind man observed. Joe, catching a movement of the hand that held Lady's leash, followed his uncle into the living-room. "Joe, was the window of King's room open?" "Yes, sir." The meal was over, and the four men came back through the doorway. Dr. Stone found his chair. Ran Freeman dropped down upon the piano stool, but Lawton seemed to seek a seat far from the blind man and the dog. Waring paced the room, and Otis King was still cold and watchful. Freeman's fingers, once more running soundlessly over the keys, struck a faint note. As though the sound had broken a barrier, he banged a chord. The next instant, swinging about on the stool, he faced the instrument and began to play, freely and without restraint. Joe found it hard to swallow. Music, in this house of death, sounded ghastly, almost sacrilegious. He looked at his uncle. The calmness was gone from Dr. Stone's face. Around the sightless eyes, around the serene mouth, strange, intense lines he knew well had suddenly formed. Captain Tucker had gone out into the kitchen to talk to Cagge. Freeman ended with a crash of sound. Seconds passed, and nobody spoke. The silence seemed no more ghastly than the music. "Ran," Otis King drawled, dangerously quiet, "your veins must be filled with ice." "Why be hypocrites?" Freeman demanded. "We're not mourning Anthony, are we?" "We can be decent about it," King told him. Dr. Stone's voice was again a calm stream. "There was one part, Freeman--Tum, te-tum-tum, tum-tum-te-tum. Toward the end. The execution was fast. Tum, te-tum----" "Oh, this." Freeman faced the key-board again and began to play. "This what you mean?" "Play it," said the blind man. Ran Freeman played. He was an artist, and he knew it. But Joe no longer gave ear to the music. Something quiet--something too quiet--had been in his uncle's voice. Something that suggested a cocked trigger about to be fired. He shivered, and gripped the ends of his sweater, and held them tight. For the second time the music ended in a crash of chords. Freeman, swung about on the stool. "Like it, Doctor?" "Beautifully done," the blind man said. He lay back against the cushions of the chair, loose and relaxed. "In fact, it would have been perfect if----" Freeman chuckled. "Are you a music critic, too, Doctor? If what?" "If," Dr. Stone said quietly, "if many of those rapid notes had been struck by a living touch." Joe screamed, "Look out, Uncle David." For Freeman, no longer self-contained, had leaped from the stool and one hand had gone toward a pocket. The blind man did not move. "Lady, get him." A tawny form hurtled through the air. There was the sound of a falling body, a scream of terror. Captain Tucker came running in from the kitchen. "What----" "It's all right, Tucker." Dr. Stone's voice was once more a calm stream. "Lady will merely hold him. He's your man." Ten minutes later Lawton, King and Waring were gone, glad to be free and away. Ran Freeman, white and sullen, sat handcuffed in one of the big chairs. Captain Tucker, having telephoned for a policeman to relieve him until the Coroner arrived, came back to the living-room. "I still don't get it, Doctor," he said ruefully. "After Lady trailed to King's room----" "That was a laid trail," Dr. Stone told him. "Anthony had warned them there was a dog that could track. Would a man deliberately invite detection by leaving a trail right to his door? However, some one of the four had been in the room. Which one? Probably the one with most at stake. Lawton stood to suffer in a small business. Waring and King would have lost their jobs. But Freeman stood to lose the Panner fortune. "King told us he had not been in the room, or unpacked his bag, or been to bed. So far as the bed and the bag were concerned it had to be the truth, for it was a story too easily disproved if he had lied. By the same reasoning, knowing that there was a dog in the neighborhood that could follow scent, he would not have made a trail to his own room if he had committed murder. Therefore, when the trail led to a room in which there was a rumpled bed and a bag partly unpacked, one fact was obvious. King was not the man. "He said he had gone out twice. But Cagge said somebody had come in three times. Did you notice the open window in King's room? The ceilings down here are low--a blind man can feel these things. The second floor wouldn't be far from the ground. Whoever killed Anthony knew King was out of the house. Therefore, after the crime, he purposely left the silk handkerchief to give the dog a scent. Then, going to King's room, he mussed the bed, dragged clothing out of the bag, and dropped out the window. No doubt you'll find deep footprints where he dropped. Going into the room and out the window, he probably reasoned, brought the trail to King's room and ended it there. "He was the third man Cagge heard come in. He must have brought Anthony's manuscript back into the house with him intending to dispose of it later. But King must have come back almost on his heels. Not wanting to be found with the manuscript he dropped it and fled. Perhaps he reasoned that King, finding it, would destroy it, anyway. If I had any doubts at all they were gone when we came downstairs. The four men were eating. Lady, circling the table, stopped at Freeman's chair. She had found the scent again. I don't think Freeman meant to kill. His idea was to steal the book. But Anthony awoke. Am I right?" Freeman had recovered some of his nerve. "Do you expect any jury to convict on the testimony of a dog?" he demanded. "Tucker," said Dr. Stone, "will you look at his right hand?" Joe shrank away from the prisoner's violent struggle to free himself of the handcuffs. Captain Tucker, holding Freeman in the chair, turned a startled face toward the blind man. "Why, Doctor?----" "Exactly, Tucker. I had the testimony of Lady, but I needed greater proof. Freeman gave it to me when he played the piano. All through the music something kept recurring. Perhaps, were I not blind, did I not have to depend so much on hearing, I would not have noticed it. A hesitation on certain notes, an almost imperceptible break in the rhythm, a faint click upon the ivory of the keys that could only be made by something foreign, something that was not living flesh. Freeman has an artificial finger." Freeman had slumped in the chair. Captain Tucker straightened up. "Doctor," he said curiously, "your brain travels too fast for me.... Much too fast. Just what does that prove?" "Everything," Dr. Stone said quietly. "Modern surgery does miracles these days. Freeman has an artificial finger that can be taken off. Do you remember Cagge's story? Old Anthony kept muttering 'Four, four.' That's what he had seen. Four! Four fingers on the hand of his murderer." BLIND MAN'S TOUCH Dr. Stone, reaching into the closet, found the gray suit that needed pressing. He knew it was gray because his fingers felt the three sharply-ridged lines of thread sewed on the inside of the collar. So, to the blind man, was every suit, shirt, tie and sock in his wardrobe marked for exact identification. One raised ridge of thread for blue, two for brown, and three for gray. He came down the stairs with the suit. Joe Morrow had put a leash on Lady, and she whined eagerly. "Ready to go, old girl?" The blind man patted the dog's head and took the leash. "All set, Joe? Got your money?" "Yes, sir." The boy felt for the two dollars he had earned weeding a neighbor's garden. "I'll have fourteen dollars saved," he boasted. "Wealth," the doctor chuckled, and snapped open his watch and touched the exposed hands with a finger. "We'll be back in time for dinner." But that was a dinner they were destined never to eat. Roses bloomed in the summer heat, fields of corn tasseled in the sun, and a dog ran out of a yard and barked at them furiously. Lady, intent only on the blind man in her keeping, pricked up her ears but did not change her rapid pace. The village was busy with its Saturday morning trade, and the tawny brute carefully maneuvered the doctor through the crowds. Joe clutched his two dollars and his bank-book. They left the gray suit at the tailor's and came out to the street. And at that moment a man, coatless and hatless, ran out of the Pelle Canning Company building and went past them, panting. Dr. Stone said: "Did you hear that man's breathing, Joe? He's frightened. Who is he?" "Mr. Pelle," the boy told him. "Where did he go?" "Into the bank." The doctor said: "Lady, right," and followed the dog across the roadway to the bank side of the street. A small door in one of the two-story brick buildings opened suddenly, and a girl hurried out. The door was marked: "OFFICE, MIDSTATE TEL. CO. UPSTAIRS," and the girl was Tessie Rich, one of the telephone operators. In her haste she almost ran into the blind man. "Oh! I'm sorry, Doctor." "No harm done, Tessie," Dr. Stone said, and chuckled slyly. "We're on our way to the bank. Any message you'd like me to give Albert Wall?" The girl colored rosily. "I usually give him my own messages." The wail of a siren filled the street and a police car went past them, traveling fast. Instantly the girl was across the sidewalk and through the telephone company door. The car stopped at the bank, and Joe saw a figure in blue uniform and brass buttons get out. "Captain Tucker?" the blind man asked. "Yes, Uncle David." "The bank?" "Yes, sir." "Tessie gone? I see. And Tucker and Pelle both in a hurry." The doctor whistled an almost soundless whistle. "We'd better get on, Joe." Something had gone wrong at the bank. The boy saw that at once. A score of depositors clung together in knots on the main floor, uneasy bank clerks stood behind the bronze grille of the teller's windows, and from some inner room came a roaring, bull voice shouting in anger. Bryan Smith, the president of the bank, agitated and flushed, appeared in the doorway of the little room, saw the blind man and cried out: "Doctor! Doctor Stone! This way, please." Joe Morrow, still clutching his two dollars and his pass-book, went with his uncle and the dog, and the door closed upon them. Inside the room three men stood about the bank president's desk. The veins in Mr. Pelle's neck were swollen with rage; Albert Wall, the cashier, tapped his fingers against the desk and frowned, and a third man, who looked lost and bewildered, held on to the back of a chair near the window. This third man, whom Joe had never seen before, smelled of antiseptics and carried his right arm in a sling. "Doctor," Bryan Smith sputtered, "this bank has been robbed of five thousand dollars. Robbed right under our noses. Not fifteen minutes ago." "By whom?" the doctor asked quietly. "We don't know. Somebody put a forged check through the window. At least Pelle says he signed only one check and----" "What do you mean I say I signed only one check?" the canner roared. "I tell you I signed only one. I should know! If you were fools enough to pay----" "But I telephoned you, Mr. Pelle," Albert Wall broke in. "You said----" "I know what I said. I told you I had given a check to Fred Hesset for five thousand dollars. If you paid five thousand dollars to another man on a forged check that's your funeral. The real Hesset is here." Mr. Pelle pointed to the man with bandaged arm. "Pay him." "Not so fast," Bryan Smith fumed. "One check has been paid already. Now we have another and you say you signed only one. Which one?" The bank president held out two slips of paper. Joe had a glimpse of them. Both were dated that day, both were made out to Fred Hesset, both were for five thousand dollars, both were signed "Paul Pelle." The canner stared at them for a long minute. "This one," he said, and pushed one of the checks across the desk. "How do you know?" "Because this one is number 1046. I gave Hesset check No. 1046." "How about your signature on this other check?" "I tell you that isn't my signature." With a quick movement the banker scrambled the checks and then laid them side by side partly covered by a blotter so that only the signatures showed. "Now, Pelle," he snapped, "which one did you sign?" The canner's neck swelled again. "What is this," he roared; "a trap? I can't tell them apart. That's what you're supposed to be able to do. I tell you----" "Gentlemen." Dr. Stone's voice was mild. "Let's stay with facts. As I understand it Pelle gave a man named Hesset a check for five thousand dollars this morning. What for?" "Damages," Mr. Pelle snapped. "Hesset owns a butcher shop at Arlington. One of my trucks got out of control and skidded into the front of the shop. Hesset was caught in the wreckage; broken arm and broken collarbone. I don't carry liability insurance. I settled with him and gave him a check at eleven o'clock this morning." Captain Tucker said: "Where does this second check come in?" "Tell them, Albert," Bryan Smith ordered. The cashier's fingers ceased to tap the desk. "At 11:13--I happened to glance at the clock--a man pushed a check through the window. It was a five thousand dollar check, made out to Fred Hesset and signed by Mr. Pelle. The man couldn't identify himself, so I called Mr. Pelle and was told he had given the check a few minutes before. I cashed it. Ten minutes later another Hesset check for five thousand dollars came through the window. It looked queer. I called Mr. Pelle again." Albert Wall made a gesture with his hands. "Then I telephoned for Captain Tucker." The captain cleared his throat. "That first check was the forged check?" Again the cashier's hands moved. "So Mr. Pelle says." The canner's face was livid. But before he could roar his wrath Dr. Stone's voice sounded quietly in the breathless tension of the room. "May I see those checks?" "Why--" The idea of sightless eyes trying to examine handwriting staggered Bryan Smith. "Why--why, of course, Doctor," he said weakly. The checks crinkled faintly in the blind man's hands. Joe, watching his uncle's face, suddenly saw a sign that sent a hot needle through his spine. Tight, puckered lines had gathered around the sightless eyes. "How many persons knew this check was to be paid today?" Dr. Stone asked. "No one," Mr. Pelle answered shortly. "Things not connected directly with the buying and selling I keep to myself." "But if you wrote Hesset surely your stenographer----" "I didn't write. I telephoned." "When?" "Last Monday evening--seven o'clock. I was alone in the office. I told him to be here promptly at eleven this morning." Albert Wall said: "If you'll excuse me a moment--" and was gone. Joe felt the warning pressure of his uncle's foot upon his toe. The door of the inner room had not been tightly closed. Craning his neck, the boy saw the cashier at a telephone. Presently Albert Wall came back still with that slight frown upon his face. "This thing was planned ahead," Captain Tucker said slowly. "Forgery is always planned ahead," Dr. Stone agreed. "Somebody knew that at eleven this morning Pelle was to give Hesset a check. By the way, Pelle, when you telephoned Monday evening did you tell Hesset what the amount of the check would be?" "Certainly. No man settles a damage claim without knowing what he's going to get. I offered five thousand dollars; he accepted." "So somebody knew three important facts--that you were going to pay a check at a certain time, the exact amount of the check and to whom it was to be made payable." "Nobody knew it," the canner insisted. "Except you and Hesset," the blind man said mildly. The bandaged man, holding to the back of the chair, seemed to grow even more bewildered. Mr. Pelle's face was thrust across the desk. "Doctor," he rasped, "are you insinuating----" Lady gave a low, deep-throated growl. One of the blind man's hands touched the tawny head. "Pelle," he asked, "how did you come to pick a Saturday morning to settle with Hesset?" "Any law against it?" Mr. Pelle demanded. "No." The doctor's voice was bland. "This is a small bank. It has only two really busy hours in the week. There is a rush from eleven to noon on Saturday just before the week-end closing; another rush from eight to nine Monday morning with business men coming in with their Saturday cash. During the week there would be leisure for a cashier to scrutinize a man; perhaps to telephone and ask, among other things, for a description. But on Saturday, after eleven, there is pressure and haste. And in this hour of pressure a check went through." Mr. Pelle wet his lips nervously. Captain Tucker stood very still. "Anything else, Doctor?" he asked. "Why, yes." The blind man took a pipe from his pocket and filled it slowly. "Why did Hesset bring his check here to be cashed? Why didn't he take it back to Arlington and deposit it in his own bank?" "Well, Hesset?" the police captain barked. Joe saw the bandaged man grip the back of the chair with his good hand. "I know nothing about two checks, Captain. I saw only one check. I wanted the money in my pocket. Cash is cash. Sometimes a check you think is good----" Mr. Pelle's roar filled the room. "You dare say that to me, Hesset?" Captain Tucker sprang between the two men, and Joe shrank out of the way. Dr. Stone said: "I had better take the dog out of here. Come, Joe." It was long past noon, and the bank was closed. Albert Wall went with them down the long, deserted floor to open the front door and let them out. "What do you make of this?" he asked in an undertone. "Pelle?" the doctor asked mildly. The cashier hesitated. "Well--yes. Five thousand dollars is a lot of money. I know the condition of Pelle's account; business hasn't been any too good of late and five thousand dollars might hit him hard. If he could pay five thousand dollars with one hand and manipulate a forged check with the other and get five thousand dollars back from the bank--. For that, though, he'd need a confederate, somebody to go to the window with the first check. It doesn't seem probable." "A possibility though," the blind man said. "A great many possibilities," he added. "Let's not forget Hesset. Either Hesset or Pelle could have worked this with a confederate. Or some person, unknown and unsuspected, might be the criminal. Good day, Albert." He held out his hand. "Good-bye, Doctor." Their hands met. The heavy door of the bank closed. The puckered lines had come back to the sightless eyes. Man, boy and dog came down the stone steps of the old-fashioned building. On the sidewalk the doctor spoke. "Joe, you could see them. How did Pelle strike you?" "He was wild," the boy answered. "A man may protest too much or too little," the blind man observed dryly. "Hesset?" "He was scared." "So! That leaves Albert Wall. Could you see him when he left the room?" "Yes, sir." "Where did he go?" "To a telephone." "Good lad!" The doctor knocked the ashes from his pipe and walked beside the dog in silence. "The telephone office," he said suddenly. Joe wondered what unseen tangent of the case could bring them there. They went up a narrow mountain of a stairway. Lady, leading, slowed and swung her Master to the left, stopping him at the counter. "Can you tell me," Dr. Stone asked, "what operators were on duty at seven o'clock last Monday night?" "We have only one girl on duty after 6:45," the manager told him, and consulted a record. "That was Tessie Rich's night. Any complaint, Doctor?" "Merely a matter of information," the doctor smiled. Back in the sunlight Joe saw that the smile was gone and that the puckers around the sightless eyes had become intent. Dr. Stone said absently: "You must be hungry, Joe," and they went toward a restaurant. But before they reached it there was a rush of feet and a woman's breathless voice. "Doctor!" It was Tessie Rich. "Why did you want to know if I was on duty last Monday night?" "I didn't." "Oh!" The girl was nonplused. "But--but you asked----" "I asked who was on duty," the doctor said gently. "Did you have any reason to think I was asking about you?" Subtle, hidden undertones filled the question, and the hot needle was again in Joe's spine. The girl raised a handkerchief to her lips. "Why--why, of course not, Doctor? Why should I?" There was something of hysterical panic in her voice. "Why?" the blind man asked, blandly. In the restaurant Joe Morrow chewed on food that all at once stuck in his throat. Why had his uncle gone to the telephone office? What hidden spring had that visit touched and what had frightened Tessie Rich? Were Mr. Pelle and the girl both involved? Had the canner actually signed two checks? What about Mr. Hesset? Who had gone to the bank with the first check and walked out with five thousand dollars in cash? "Do you know who did it, Uncle David?" A pipe came out of a pocket; blue smoke spiraled fragrantly about a face that had become placid and bland. "Joe, the bank is built on a corner--at an angle to the corner. How far up the street can you see?" "Quite a distance." "As far as Pelle's factory?" "Yes, sir." "I know who didn't do it," the blind man said, and stood up. "And," he added quietly, "I think I know who did." Joe hoped it wasn't Tessie Rich. They walked out of the village and up along the dirt road. The doctor said aloud: "If I could pick one more link--" and left the sentence unfinished and said no more. Tree toads made metallic clamor in the afternoon heat, and the earth smelled as though it were baked. A clock struck three as they entered the house. Dr. Stone paced the porch and Lady stretched off in a patch of sun and watched him steadily. Joe brought up a tool from the cellar and prepared to trim the hedge. A light delivery truck stopped in the road and a young man carried a suit up to the house. "You're prompt," Dr. Stone said. The suit was on a hanger; the coat brushed against his knee with a soft crinkle. He ran one hand into a pocket and pulled out a paper. Strange! There had been nothing in the pockets of the suit he had carried away. His hand went up quickly to feel inside the collar. The three sharply ridged lines of thread were not there. "Joe!" he called. "Stop that tailor's boy----" But the driver had already discovered his mistake. He came up the walk with the suit of gray. Joe laid down the clippers and followed him in. "I'll carry that up to your room, Uncle Da----What's Lady got?" The dog had found a paper on the floor. Now she carried it to the doctor. It crinkled in his hand. It was a small paper, no larger than half a sheet from a note-book. Joe watched those hands move, gently exploring, over every inch of surface. And as the hands moved, Dr. Stone's face changed. Joe had seen that sharp, alert expression before. It was a silent sign that, some place in the eternal darkness of his world, the blind man had found light. "Joe, there is writing on this paper?" "Yes, sir." The boy looked closer and drew in a hot, throbbing breath. "Uncle David! The same thing's written all over it. Paul Pelle, Paul Pelle, Paul Pelle." Dr. Stone said a soft: "Ah!" and folded the paper and put it in his pocket. "The criminal always slips," he observed; "there's always something forgotten." He stood for a moment whistling softly. "Care to stretch your legs? I want a word with the tailor." Joe's eyes, fascinated, were on the writing. That paper had fallen from the suit delivered by mistake, and now his uncle wanted to know to whom the suit belonged. "Couldn't you telephone him, Uncle David?" The blind man's mouth twitched. "The call might pass through Tessie's switchboard," he said dryly. The boy groped, and stumbled, and sought to find the meaning. The afternoon sun was low; the first cool breath of evening breeze blew over the dirt road. He waited outside while his uncle talked with the tailor; when the man came out he was whistling. "Police station," he said. Captain Tucker was at his desk. "Doctor," he burst out, "this thing is baffling. Lay those two checks side by side and you can't tell the signatures apart. I've talked to New York. There isn't a forger known to the police in this part of the country." Dr. Stone asked: "Did Albert Wall give you a description?" "Of the man who cashed that first check? A lot of good that does. Five feet eight, about 155 pounds, dark, clean-shaven, blue suit. It fits a million men." "It would," the doctor said blandly. His face was inscrutable. "You heard Pelle's story and Albert Wall's. Get statements prepared." "For what?" "For them to sign." His hands felt along the desk for the telephone and he called Bryan Smith's house. "Bryan? Dr. Stone. Do you know where you can find Albert at this hour? He's with you now? Can you have him at the bank in an hour? I'll be along with Captain Tucker and Pelle." He put down the telephone. "You have an hour, Tucker, in which to get those statements ready and dig up Pelle. He's probably at the factory." "But why signed statements?" Captain Tucker demanded impatiently. "Bait," the blind man said casually. "Sometimes you use cheese in a trap; sometimes you use printed words." He settled into a chair and closed his eyes, and appeared to doze. The dog, ever watchful, lay at his feet. Captain Tucker left the room, and presently, in another part of the police station, a typewriter began to click. The captain came back grumbling and out-of-sorts. The doctor's devious, subtle methods always provoked him to a show of ill-humor. The telephone rang sharply--there had been an automobile crash near the bridge. A minute later a motor roared into life in the alley beside the station and a motorcycle patrolmen sped away. The blind man did not stir. Joe Morrow squirmed restlessly and watched the clock. Mr. Pelle arrived in a chastened, subdued mood; a uniformed man brought Captain Tucker several typewritten sheets; the wall clock struck the hour, and Dr. Stone opened his eyes. "Ready, Tucker?" They drove to the bank in the police car. Bryan Smith let them in. Dusk had begun to gather in the corners farthest from the windows, a guardlight burned in front of the steel safe, and a burst of ceiling lights shone from the inner room. Captain Tucker and Mr. Pelle went on ahead while the bank president saw to it that the door was securely locked. The doctor lingered. "Bryan," he said softly, "are there pens and ink on your desk?" "Certainly." "Remove them; Lady, forward." And before the man could reply the doctor was on his way past the teller's cages, one hand holding the harness-grip, his body bent a little toward the guiding dog. Bryan Smith, saying that they might need room, cleared the desk. Mr. Pelle's eyes shifted from side to side and missed nothing. Albert Wall seemed to wait patiently the outcome of this strange gathering. But what held Joe's attention and sent the blood pounding in his veins was a something that lay behind the passive placidity of his uncle's face. "Captain Tucker," Dr. Stone said, "has prepared statements for Pelle and Albert to sign. You have pens, gentlemen? Now, if you will sign them----" Albert Wall read rapidly and, taking a fountain pen from his pocket, signed at once. Mr. Pelle read his paper through and then read it again. He wrote his name slowly. "Albert's paper, Captain." The doctor laid it on the desk at his right hand. "Pelle's." It went upon the left. "Now, Bryan, if I may have those checks. First the one Pelle says he didn't sign." It went upon the right with Albert Wall's statement. The bank president's nerves had been under a long strain. "What's the meaning of this, Doctor?" he snapped. "If you have your suspicions, let us know them. If you have anything to say, say it. Don't waste time." "Presently," the doctor said mildly. His hands had moved, mysteriously explored, and had come to rest. That vague something in his face was no longer there; he was serene. When he spoke again his voice was almost confidential. "Had that fountain pen long, Albert?" The cashier was surprised. "Four or five years." "You kept it too long. It tripped you." "Tripped? Look here, Doctor, what are you driving at?" "Money," the blind man said. "Five thousand dollars. What did you do with it?" In the appalled silence of the room Joe heard clearly the sound of someone breathing with an effort. The cashier had not moved. "Do you know what you're saying, Doctor?" "Quite," the doctor said pleasantly. From his pocket he drew out a paper. "Did you ever see this?" It was the paper Lady had picked from the floor. Albert Wall's eyes widened. "A dangerous business, handling money," Dr. Stone mused. "Thousands upon thousands of dollars pouring through one's hands every day. Other people's money. If a man has a weak spot some place inside it may get him--a fever to have some of this money for his own. If the right moment comes, or the right scheme presents itself---- "You heard about the settlement Pelle was to make with Hesset, didn't you, Albert? The weak spot took control. You saw a chance to put your hands on five thousand dollars so cleverly that it would never be traced to you. You must have spent hour upon hour practicing Pelle's signature. And finally you had a check that you thought was perfect. "You could see Pelle's factory. Saturday morning you saw Hesset go in. You may have gone to Arlington so you'd know what he looked like; you may have figured you'd know him because he would be bandaged. You saw him come out; you waited a minute or two. Then you telephoned Pelle that a man was at the window with a five thousand dollar check. Naturally Pelle said it was all right. You knew he'd say that. Hadn't he just given the check? So you stamped 'paid' on the check you had forged, and placed it with the checks the bank had cashed that morning. Shortly thereafter the real Hesset appeared and you telephoned Pelle again. Oh, it was a sweet scheme, Albert. Apparently there was no come-back. Hadn't Pelle told you to pay the first check? Could the bank be held responsible for paying a check Pelle told it to pay? In its simplicity the plan was almost genius. But--" The doctor paused. "You slipped." The cashier had not moved. "Doctor," he said evenly, "your story is preposterous. You heard Pelle say he was alone in the office when he telephoned Hesset. To put a scheme like this through I would have to know in advance that a settlement had been made, when a check was to be given, and for how much. How could I know it?" "Bryan," the blind man said, "will you call the telephone office and ask them can they send Tessie Rich over here for a moment?" The bank president reached for the telephone. "Don't do that," Albert Wall called sharply. In a moment all the self-control had gone out of him. There was a chair behind him; he reached back and sank into it heavily. "Keep her out of it," he said in a whisper. "I--I did it. I alone." Mr. Pelle wiped beads of sweat from his forehead. "I thought you suspected me, Doctor?" "It is wise, sometimes, to appear to suspect the innocent. Do you remember I asked for the checks this morning? A moment later I knew you were not the man. As soon as you said you had telephoned Hesset a significant thing happened. Albert left the room. He went to a telephone. My guess is he went there to warn Tessie not to tell anybody she had spoken to him about the Hesset settlement." The cashier lifted a white face. "How did you know that?" "Deduction. One person could have heard what Pelle said to Hesset--the central operator through whom the call passed. When I left here Albert took me to the door. I made a point of shaking hands with him. A cashier who had just paid a forged check, it is only natural to suppose, would be nervous and upset. Albert's hand was hard and strained, his grip that of a man steeled to see something through.... What? "I stopped at the telephone office and asked what girls had been on duty at seven o'clock Monday evening. Tessie had been on duty alone. I did not mention her name; and yet, before I had gone one hundred feet, she was out in the street after me, badly shaken, demanding to know why I had inquired about her. That end of the picture was complete. Tessie and Albert were sweethearts; she had told him of the Pelle call in confidential gossip. I knew then who the guilty man was, but I could not prove it. "This afternoon the tailor delivered me another man's suit by mistake. I found it was Albert's. This was in one of the pockets." The doctor pushed across the desk the paper covered with the canner's signature. "Probably every other paper on which Albert had practiced the signature had been destroyed--this one had been overlooked. As he could not have practiced forgery at the bank he must have done it at home. And as the same pen had written the signatures on this paper and the signature on the forged check, they must have been written, not with a bank pen, but with a pen that Albert carried with him. I wanted to have him use that pen before witnesses. "So I had Captain Tucker prepare statements and bring you here. I had Bryan clear the desk so that Albert would have no other pen to use but his own. Once he signed that statement he had damned himself." Bryan Smith, examining the two checks, shook his head. "Doctor, you cannot see. How could you tell that?" "Have you a magnifying glass?" the blind man asked. The bank president took one from a drawer. "Examine the check Pelle signed and the statement he signed. Both signatures are smooth. Look at the forged check. There are three l's in Paul Pelle. On each of the three upstrokes on the l's the pen gouged the paper a bit. Here's the paper that was in the suit. The same gouge on the upstrokes. Now the statement Albert Wall signed. There are also three l's in his name, and the same gouge on the upstrokes. All made by the same pen." Joe Morrow was filled with a sense of pride and wonder. Bryan Smith said slowly: "Doctor, I fail to see how you, sightless, could detect that." "Eyes," Dr. Stone said. "Auxiliary eyes. When sight goes, other senses quicken." He laid his hands upon the table, palms up, and the light shone upon the delicate, sensitive finger tips. "You mean you could feel these grooves?" Captain Tucker demanded. "Yes." The captain ran his own fingers across the signatures. "I don't see how," he complained. "I don't feel a thing." Dr. Stone filled his pipe with expert care. "You are not blind," he said mildly. "You lack a blind man's touch." BIRTHDAY WARNING Even though his eyes could not tell the difference between light and darkness, Dr. Stone knew that day had broken. The air had an early morning smell. Reaching out, he felt for the clock from which the glass face had been removed; his sensitive fingers, touching the exposed hands lightly, recorded the time. Five minutes of six. He sat up in bed. He had gone to sleep thinking of Allan Robb, and now, awake, the thought returned. Tomorrow would be Allan's birthday. Twenty-one years old; the master, in his own right, of a fortune. The doctor chuckled, and wondered just how much of a master Allan would really be--for a while, anyway. For Alec Landry was Allan's guardian and had lived at the Robb homestead these six years since old Jamie Robb's death. A straightforward man, Alec Landry, who had obeyed old Jamie's dying command to "bring up my boy right." A loud, hearty man, with a love of having his own way and a habit of roaring down any who opposed him. Tomorrow, then, Allan Robb would become master in name; but it would be several years, probably, before the young man got out from under Alec Landry's hand. A good thing, Dr. Stone thought dryly. Already there were signs of attentions that might turn the head of a young man suddenly independent. Tomorrow there was to be a great party. That was all right--a lad comes of age only once. Bruce Robb had sent up a blooded mare from New York. That was all right, too--Bruce was Allan's cousin. But all yesterday afternoon cars had come in through the village, traveling fast. Cars that blew imperative horns too obviously. That was the danger to Allen--rich young friends with time on their hands and nothing to do. Ah, well; leave that to Alec Landry. He was a stout man when it came to calling halt. Dr. Stone swung his legs to the floor. Lady arose from where she had slept, stretched her great muscles, and came toward him. "Lady," the doctor said, "suppose we take to the road. There aren't many good days left. Once winter comes you and I will be more or less chained to the house." The deep eyes of the dog clung to his face. Presently, his hand holding the hard handle-grip of Lady's harness, he listened at Joe Morrow's bedroom door. His nephew was still asleep. Out on the dirt road Dr. Stone said, "Lady, away," and they turned north to where Indian summer lingered late in the hills and the valleys were a brown haze. By and by there was wood smoke in the man's nostrils, and the distant babble of many alien tongues. And, while he wondered about this a woman's voice, old and weak, quavered at him from the roadside. "Your fortune, kind master, if it's safe near the beast and you blind. Cross my palm with silver, and----" Gypsies! The doctor laughed and shook his gray, lion head. His left hand held to the harness; his right hand swung a light cane. Abruptly the cane lost contact with a field fence and touched nothing. The man said, "Lady, right," and passed through a pasture gate onto Allan Robb's land as unerringly as though he could see the gate itself. And the thought that lay in his mind had to do with the gypsy encampment and how long it would be before Alec Landry discovered the trespass and roared the intruders off. And now, suddenly, the stillness that seemed part of the smoky haze was broken, and the morning was filled with the far-off echoes of a sledge or a pick swung against rock and dirt. The sound, the doctor decided, came from the deep ravine that divided the Robb estate. But when man and dog came to the wooden bridge that spanned the ravine, there was no sound save the gurgle of water running among the sharp rocks far below. "Hello, down there!" Dr. Stone called. Silence! Lady stood rigid and a low growl rumbled in her throat. The man, sharpened by an intangible something, touched the alert ears, and the dog was quiet. A wind sighed through the bare branches of the trees, and all at once there was dust and grit in his face. The grit burned like fire. He put up a quick hand and rubbed hot, harsh particles between his fingers. For a time he stood there motionless, startled; and then, slowly, he moved off the bridge with the dog. An hour later he was back on the dirt road. Horses' hoofs raced and pounded, and voices shouted and halloed. Lady pulled him out of the way, toward the safety of a hedge, and the young people who had come for Allan's party thundered past. One pair of hoofs pranced, and one of the riders rode back. "The new mare, Allan?" Dr. Stone asked. "No, sir. Skipper thinks it's more in keeping not to ride her until tomorrow." Skipper had always been Allan Robb's name for his guardian. "Did you run into the gypsies?" The doctor was surprised. "You know they're there?" "Of course. I think we all know they're there." The doctor's surprise increased. "Alec, too?" "Skipper?" Allan's laugh rang. "Doctor, I think Skipper's softening. Of course he knows they're there--he must. Cousin Bruce, too. You remember Bruce--forever chasing boys out of the orchard when he came on vacation? Last night I saw him talking pleasantly to one of the gypsy men." "Where was Bruce? At their camp?" "No; down at the ravine bridge." Spurs touched the horse. "You and Joe will be over this afternoon?" "Nothing could keep me away," Dr. Stone said quietly. The horse was gone in a crescendo of hoof-beats, and the blind man again stood thinking for a time before moving on. Joe Morrow met him at the house gate. "Allan stopped and said we were to go over, Uncle David. He's going to show me the mare. And there's a story in the _Herald_ about Bruce Robb. He's being sued--." The boy found the story in the paper. "For eight thousand five hundred dollars." He spoke the sum in a tone of awe. Dr. Stone whistled soundlessly. How much would a good horse cost today? Five hundred dollars? If a man who couldn't pay his bills spent five hundred dollars for a birthday present---- "Joe, do you think you could get into that ravine on Allan's land without being seen?" "I--I think so." "Somebody was there this morning hiding under the planking of the bridge." Joe stared. "How did you know?" "Lady warned me. Then, whoever was under there, had a pipe. The hot grains of tobacco blew into my face." The boy's heart missed a beat. "You think the gypsies--" The blind man shrugged. "I'd like to know what story the ravine could tell. Give it a look, Joe, and keep out of sight." Lady, out of her harness, drowsed in a patch of sun, but Dr. Stone sat with a perplexed pucker between his sightless eyes. By and by familiar footsteps came hurriedly along the dirt road, and he arose and went to the porch door. "Somebody's been messing under the bridge," Joe reported. "A lot of rock's been knocked out and a lot of dirt dug away. Does it mean anything, Uncle David?" "Perhaps," the blind man said, and took the dog's harness down from a peg. "It's time we looked in at the party." Allan Robb's house was gay with noise and with laughter. Young people seemed to be everywhere--on the porch, on the lawn, back toward the stables. Joe, walking with his uncle and the dog, was conscious of curious glances and voices that flattened out and became silent. And so they went up to the porch to be met by Allan in the great hall. "Glad you came, Doctor. Joe, I'll show you the mare--" His voice broke off. "Bruce, here's an old friend." Joe edged back a step. Bruce Robb, proud and imperious, had often driven him from Allan's acres, and he was still a little in awe of the man. But the Bruce he met today was morose and restless, and given to a habit of gnawing on a clipped, black mustache. Alec Landry surged down the hall. "Hi, Doctor. A party to be remembered. Well, why not? It isn't every day a man comes of age." "Aren't you a day early?" Dr. Stone asked mildly. "Why wait for the day to arrive. Meet it; greet it; welcome it on the threshold. The old Indian tribes had the right idea." Joe wondered what Indians had to do with Allan's birthday. "Symbolism," Alec Landry roared heartily. "At midnight Allan becomes of age, and immediately he begins to exercise the prerogatives of a man. At a minute past the hour he walks into the library with two witnesses and signs his will. At four tomorrow morning he'll saddle the mare Bruce gave him and ride it for the first time. Ride it, Doctor, in the dark of the night and on his own land. Ride it through the woodland to the bridge, and over the ravine, and up East Hill. And then, alone on the hilltop, he'll meet his manhood in the dawn." "Quite an idea," the blind man said. And then: "Might I trouble either of you gentlemen for a pipeful of tobacco?" Joe thought they must all hear the breath that rattled in his throat. A man, smoking a pipe, had hidden--. Did his uncle suspect somebody here? His hot eyes watched to see who would bring forth tobacco. "All the pipefuls you want, Doctor," Alec Landry roared, "and welcome. Bruce and I smoke the same brand. Take your pick of either pouch." The doctor filled his pipe, and a merry group came through the hall and Alec was swept away. "Skipper's certainly putting on a show for the golden crown," Bruce said tartly. The blind face was a tranquil mask. "Aren't you?" Bruce gave a bitter laugh. "You've seen the _Herald_, I suppose, and you're wondering about the mare. You've never been a half-soled cousin, have you? When you become the poor end of a rich relative you play to keep in his good graces. You heard Skipper mention the will? When Allan dies I'll inherit wealth. Something to look forward to, isn't it? And yet, at this minute, I'm as poor--." He bit off the sentence, and in that instant the noisy gayety from the lawn fell away to a startled murmur and then became a hushed silence. "Probably some more of Skipper's symbolism," Bruce Robb jeered. Dr. Stone said, "Lady, out," and they reached the porch. The silence remained unbroken. "It's a gypsy woman, Uncle David," Joe said breathlessly. The woman was painfully old, and gnarled, and advanced toward the porch with the aid of a stout stick of twisted wood. Even in the voluminous folds of her faded, bedraggled, once gayly-colored garments she seemed a fragile framework of bones and of brown, wrinkled flesh. Beads were strung around her scrawny neck; brass rings hung from her ears. And as Joe watched, fascinated, she hobbled slowly up the walk with the slowness of great age. "Where did she come from?" Bruce demanded. "Don't you know?" Dr. Stone asked mildly. The morose man flared. "Of course not. Why should I?" Joe had the feeling that, in that short dialogue, something had been charged, something denied. Strange premonitions grew and throbbed. And yet his eyes were glued to the old crone, leaning like a bundle of rags on her stick at the foot of the porch. "Your fortunes, kind masters," she cried in a weak quaver. "It is well to know the future, for a cloud hangs over this house. I see danger where no danger should be, and a bud dying as it blooms." Joe went cold to his spine. Feet shifted restlessly in the grass, and Alec Landry burst through the crowd. "What's this vagabond doing here?" he demanded roughly. Bruce gave a thin smile. "A different sort of symbolism, Skipper. Making prophecy. Danger, and death, and doom. Pleasant old hag." Joe saw the Landry face go red with rage. Pushing past Bruce he went down the steps, burly in his strength, and towered above the bent, shrunken form. "You're not wanted here," he said. "Clear out before I call the police." The bent bundle did not stir. "Do you hear me?" Alec roared. "Go!" Slowly a clawlike hand lifted itself above the parchment face. For seconds she stood there, and in those seconds no one moved or spoke. "The blind man," she croaked. "Hark to me. The blind man shall see, and the wolf shall find a thorn in the rose." The hand dropped. Slowly that bundle of rags turned, slowly it tottered on its way, slowly it disappeared among the trees. A shuddering voice said, "Gosh, Allan; that was creepy." Alec Landry fumed. "Mark me, Doctor, if there's mischief abroad in this neighborhood it will be the gypsies behind it." "What mischief, Alec?" "Why--." Joe was startled to find the man suddenly uneasy. "How should I know?" "How?" the doctor admitted blandly. Pinched lines had formed around the sightless eyes. Lady moved restlessly against his left leg, and Allan strove to rout the depression of the old woman's visit. "Your fortune, kind masters," he mimicked; "a roof lies over this house--." He went off into a gale of laughter. "What a lot of rot! I said I'd show you the mare, Joe. Coming, Doctor?" and the party, recovering its voice and its holiday mood, milled toward the stable-yard. The mare, Joe saw with a thrill of admiration, was superb. A groom had brought her out roaring and plunging. Suddenly she was on her hind legs, pawing the air, whistling and snorting. A girl screamed. The blind man's ears had etched the picture. "A spirited animal, Bruce." "Spirited, yes." "Too much spirit, perhaps." Bruce shrugged. "Allan wouldn't thank you for a cream-puff. He knows how to ride--he's proud of it--he warms to a horse with plenty of fire." "And yet--." The cane in the right hand swished gently against a trouser leg. "Even a skilled rider might find it dangerous to ride a strange, fiery horse in the dark." "Why don't you tell that to Skipper, Doctor? It's his show. Anyhow, the mare isn't a killer. I know horses." "And gypsies?" the doctor asked softly. Joe was conscious of those strange premonitions twitching at his nerves. Bruce gnawed at his mustache. "I might as well tell you," he flung out suddenly. "Of course I knew that the gypsies had made camp; I talked to some of them. When you've had your own taste of being harried and pressed you shrink from hounding others. The truth is, Doctor, I've lost practically all of what money I had a year ago. Skipper had a hot tip on a deal and let me in. It wiped me out." Joe saw that the right hand no longer swished the cane. The groom took the mare back to the stable, and the crowd went off shouting in search of some new interest. Dr. Stone said, "Lady, house," and returned to the porch. The house seemed to be momentarily deserted; but suddenly a voice came from one of the rooms off the wide, center hall. "I tell you I can't--not now. Give me time. A week--two at the most. I'll make good. I--" The blind man's feet rang hard against the floor. The voice stopped short, and a receiver snapped back upon a hook. Alec Landry came out into the hall. "Oh! It's you, Doctor. You'll pardon me; I have an errand that won't wait." Abruptly, on his way to the door, he turned and came back. "What do you think of the mare?" It was Joe who answered. "Isn't she a beauty?" "A devil. You've talked to Bruce, Doctor. What do you make of him?" "Was I supposed to make something?" The man shook his head impatiently. "Allan should not have told him how much he was to inherit. He's in a black mood and penniless." "You're letting Allan ride the mare," Dr. Stone pointed out. "Yes." There was a moment of silence. "What else could I do? He believes in himself. Could I risk shaking his courage and turning him into a coward? See you later." The blind man stood whistling his soundless whistle. Presently he touched the dog. "Lady, outside." The revelry of Allan's guests was subdued in the distance. "Are we going home, Uncle David?" Joe asked. "We're going to the bridge," said Dr. Stone. Dusk crept out of the sky and darkness gathered in the hollows. They skirted a field of stubble and plunged into woodland, and Joe could feel the hard pumping of his heart. The bridge again! Did his uncle expect to find something there? The murmur of water came to them, and he lengthened his stride and struck out ahead. "Behind me, Joe," Dr. Stone called sharply. The boy drew back. From the rear he saw his uncle urge Lady forward until both walked at an extraordinary fast pace. The sound of running water was stronger now, clear and distinct in the evening quiet. Fearlessly, without hesitation, the blind man went ahead into the unknown, trusting himself to the guidance of the beast. Lady reached the bridge. And then, in one swift movement, she seemed to half leap and turn. Her powerful body blocked the man's path, found his legs and pressed him back. "Joe!" There was no change in the serene self-control of the voice. "Yes, Uncle David." "Give me your hand. Step out upon the bridge--one foot only, one foot lightly. And hold on to my hand with all your strength." The boy put a trembling foot upon the wooden planking. The next instant, with a strangled cry, he leaped toward the man and, even as he leaped, found himself pulled back violently. "It moved, Uncle David." "I thought so." "What does it mean?" "It means murder," the blind man said grimly. Joe wiped cold sweat from his forehead. Who was to die? Allan? Who planned it? "The gypsies, Uncle David?" "No." Quietly, without haste, the man filled his pipe. "Remember, they are a clan. The old woman would not have spoken of death if the men of her tribe were concerned in this. Besides, who would hire them for this sort of work and risk paying blackmail all the days of his life? I am concerned with something else. Alec Landry called me to witness their presence should there be mischief. Bruce took pains to explain why he had not driven them off. Both men may have spoken the truth, but it is not likely. One or both of them lied." Night had fallen. In the darkness Dr. Stone smoked as placidly as though death and horror were not at his elbow. Lady still kept her body between him and the ravine. "Two men," he said, "one with a fortune to gain, one with a crime to cover. Do they work together, or do they work alone? Is one innocent? If so, which one?" Joe spoke in a whisper. "What crime, Uncle David?" "Embezzlement. You heard that telephone talk of Landry's? He's lost heavily in the deal that wrecked Bruce. He's probably lost money that didn't belong to him--Allan's money. Somebody has planned that Allan shall die. Is it the man who would be sure to become wealthy, or the man who might save himself from jail? Who undermined this bridge?" Without haste he knocked the ashes from his pipe. "Come, Joe; we're going back." Once clear of the woodland Joe saw the house across the fields brilliant with lights. Sounds of merriment came from inside, and a dozen voices laughed and talked at once. Dr. Stone spoke softly. "What are they doing, Joe? Eating?" "Yes, sir." "Bruce and Mr. Landry?" "I can't see them. They're not at the tab----I see them now. They're coming this way toward the porch." "We'll soon know," the blind man said calmly. When Bruce and Alec Landry stepped from the house he sat in placid contentment, and the tawny shepherd dog lay at his feet. "Allan's holding places for you and Joe," Alec Landry said. The doctor shook his head. "I think I'll stay here. This is a night when youth has a right to question the presence of gray hairs." "I'm in no mood for it myself," Bruce Robb said curtly, and dropped into a chair to the left of Dr. Stone. Landry sat on his right. The blind man stretched his arms lazily, as one does who takes his rest gratefully, and his hands fell on an arm of the chair of the man on either side. "And so Allan rides at dawn," he said casually. Joe had almost ceased to breathe. "At dawn," Alec Landry repeated heartily. "By George, there's a picture. Sir Galahad with the sunrise in his face. Get it, Doctor?" "Plainly, Alec; very plainly. That's what worries me." "What worries you?" "The picture. It's incomplete. First he rides out. So far, so good. But--is he supposed to come back?" For the space of a heart-beat it was as though neither man had heard; then Bruce leaped to his feet. "Dr. Stone, that's a ghastly thing to say." "It's a ghastly business," the blind man said without emotion. "That mumbling gypsy has addled your brain. You're mad. I think I can find pleasanter company." He was gone, and Joe grew conscious of a collar that had become too tight. Would Uncle David let him go, or would Lady be sent to bring him back? A burst of laughter rolled from the festive dining-room. Dr. Stone's voice, brooding, came out of the darkness. "You were desperate, Alec, weren't you?" "Desperate?" The word was snapped. "Yes; desperate. The deal that had plunged Bruce to ruin had sucked you down, too. You didn't know which way to turn. Until Bruce sent up the mare there seemed no escape; but when the mare arrived it opened the doors to salvation. It brought a plan. Let the lad ride out alone. Blame the mare when his body was found--a runaway crash through the bridge. Hadn't they all seen the mare's wild prancings? You tried to cover yourself from every angle. You even insinuated that Bruce might have a reason for sending such a horse--you even called her a devil--and whispered of Bruce's black mood, and his penniless condition, and the will. You tried to work the gypsies into the pattern. If some sharp eye should notice something queer about the way the bridge had collapsed hadn't there been gypsies encamped nearby? You were too pointed in calling my attention to the gypsies and their possible relation to the future events. That was when I began to suspect you. It was inconceivable that you hadn't known they were on the land. Never before had you permitted trespass. Why this time? "The answer was simple. It was the will that Allan was to sign at midnight. Without question he was to name you executor. It takes a year to close an estate. With Allan dead the estate, instead of passing out of your charge, would remain in your control for another twelve months. A year in which to save yourself from going to prison as a thief. A year in which to put back the money you used to finance your own personal business deals. How deeply did you dip your hands into Allan's funds? How much did you lose? How much are you short?" There was a stark, sick silence. Joe pulled at his collar and wet his lips. "Eighty thousand dollars," Alec Landry said hoarsely. "And you planned to hide it under a murder," Dr. Stone said in a voice that was flat, and level, and as cold as ice. They were singing in the house. Allan, flushed and happy, came out to the porch. "Skipper, they want you inside. That bass voice of yours is needed." Joe held to the porch rail and waited for what might come next. Alec Landry did not rise. "Allan," he said heavily, "when you ride at dawn, don't go by the bridge. I've just had word that it's in bad shape--the weight of a horse would crash it down. It might be a good idea to run your party over and block the approaches. Some luckless devil might wander out on it." Presently the young men were gone with lanterns, and lights, and axes to build a barricade; and he who had been great on Allan Robb's land waited in the house for the just punishment that would come; and a boy, and a dog and a blind man went toward home along the dirt road. "Conscience, Joe," Dr. Stone said quietly. "You'll remember, I sat between them. One, or both, were behind the cold-blooded plan. If, out of a clear sky, knowledge of the plot were exploded, there would have to be a reaction. I counted on that. Conscience can steel itself to brazenly meet the expected, but against the unexpected it is unprepared. And so, when I asked if Allan were expected to return from that ride----" "Yes?" Joe Morrow asked breathlessly. "Conscience spoke," Dr. Stone told him quietly. "Alec Landry's chair trembled as his guilty soul cowered in fear." THE HOUSE OF BEATING HEARTS In the short dusk of a Friday afternoon in March Joe Morrow came toward home from the village school pleasantly concerned with plans for the week-end holiday. There was a hint of spring in the air, and the hard crust of the winter's snow had begun to soften. At the top of the last rise out of the village he passed Roscoe Sweetman's farm, and it seemed to the boy that the burly Mr. Sweetman, busy outside the barn, turned and looked after him as he passed. From there a section of the road spread out before him--the deserted, abandoned Farley place and, beyond that, the rock-and-timber house which Frederick Wingate had built and in which he painted pictures that were sent to art dealers in New York. Queer pictures, the village said--pictures of queer blurs and shadows, pictures in which men did not look like men nor did horses look like horses. Frederick Wingate, according to village suspicion, was slightly mad. But Joe Morrow's thoughts were far removed from men who might be mad. Sometimes, if you were lucky, you found an apple imprisoned under the snow--a late windfall that was almost a ball of liquid cider. He swung off the road and, back in the Farley orchard, rooted diligently. Presently, triumphant, he gave a shout. He had found not one apple, but two. He bit through the skin, and the cold, imprisoned juices oozed into his mouth. When the fruit was sucked dry he tossed it aside and bit into the second. And only then did he notice how much the day had darkened. And suddenly, for no reason at all, he was filled with a creeping, apprehensive dread. His eyes, startled, rested on the house where Matt Farley had once lived, and he forgot to suck nectar through the punctured hole in the apple. Often, since the house had been abandoned, he had romped around the wide porches and climbed over the heavy railings. But now, in the gathering gloom, the structure had ceased to be friendly and inviting. Against the darkening sky this old friend of a house had all at once become a threatening, nameless thing--a monster of lightless windows, and locked doors, and stark, inner silence. The boy, uneasy, began to move toward the road. Without warning he broke into a run as though peril clutched at his heels. Back on the road he felt safe. Outside the house of Frederick Wingate two men stood talking; he saw, with surprise, that one of them was Mr. Sweetman. A little while ago the farmer had been working at his own barn, and he was not the type given to hurry. Why, then, had he hurried over here? The boy was conscious, as he approached, that the talking stopped. Roscoe Sweetman called in his slow, heavy, rumbling voice: "Why were you running, Joe?" The boy gulped. "N--nothing." "Didn't I tell you?" the farmer cried. But the artist only laughed. "Coincidence, Roscoe." The laugh lingered in the boy's ears, amused, scoffing. "Your uncle going to be home tonight, Joe?" "I think so, Mr. Wingate." "Tell him we'll be over." Joe trudged on through the snow. What was this coincidence? Why had Mr. Sweetman cried out, "Didn't I tell you?" Why were they coming to see Uncle David? Had it something to do with the Farley house? Why had he fled in panic from the orchard? Now that he was away from the place the action seemed foolish and cowardly. It was one thing he would not tell his uncle, for he could not imagine Dr. David Stone, blind though he was, fleeing from anything. At eight o'clock the artist and the farmer came to the house. Frederick Wingate called: "Don't get up, Doctor," and Dr. Stone held out a hand of warm greeting. Lady lay at his feet and stared unwinking at the visitors. Joe Morrow stared, too. Was it the Farley house? Roscoe Sweetman, ungainly and burly in his leather coat, his corduroy trousers and his heavy boots, sat uncomfortably in a chair and rubbed a calloused hand across a stubble of beard. Frederick Wingate, lithe and jaunty, walked the floor and filled the boy's eyes. An opera cloak draped his shoulders, his shirt was pleated, his collar was long and loose, and a silk tie was gathered in a limp, nondescript bow. He seemed, in his dress, to belong to another age; and this passion for adornments of the past was reflected in his jewelry. His watch was old--a thick, heavy silver timepiece elaborately scrolled that had been converted into an ungainly wrist watch. And on the finger of his right hand was an enormous old-fashioned ring of gold curiously twisted and knotted. "Doctor," the artist announced, "I have brought you a man half out of his wits." "I know what I have heard," the farmer said, slowly and heavily. "Just what did you hear, Sweetman?" Dr. Stone asked. "It was last night. I was coming home from the village and took a short cut across the Farley place to get quicker to my back door. I came close past the house, and there were voices coming from the inside. That was strange because there was no light on the inside. I have long had a key from Mr. Rodgers, the real estate man, so I went home and got the key and opened the front door. From inside came groans and cries of suffering. Then I went and shouted for Mr. Wingate." "And then?" the doctor asked. The artist shrugged. "I brought flashlights. We searched the house from cellar to attic. There was nobody there--nothing had been disturbed." "Voices?" Dr. Stone suggested. "He's imagining things," Frederick Wingate said impatiently. "There were no voices." "I heard them plain," the farmer insisted stonily. "'Them'?" The blind man's voice had taken on a note of quick interest. "What do you mean by 'them'?" "Ghosts," said Mr. Sweetman. "If it was imagination with me, what was it with Joe when he came running hard this afternoon?" Ice crept up and down the boy's back, and his stomach chilled. His uncle whistled long and softly. "What did you hear or see, Joe?" "Nothing." "But you ran?" "Yes, sir. From the orchard." "Why?" "I--I don't know." "I do," Mr. Sweetman said with stolid insistence. Frederick Wingate laughed. "A boy's vivid imagination, Doctor. A sudden fear of the dark." "I never knew Joe to be afraid of the dark," Dr. Stone said quietly. "You still have the key, Sweetman? By the way, how did you come into possession of the key?" "I was thinking of buying," the farmer explained. "Mr. Rodgers gave me the key so that I could look long at the house. Before that Mr. Wingate had the key." The doctor asked: "Were you thinking of buying, Fred?" "Yes. Rodgers came to me three months ago and offered it for eight thousand dollars. It's worth far more than that to a man who could use it. With its good lines and its solid construction it has possibilities. However, after looking it over I decided it wouldn't answer my purpose. I gave the key back to Rodgers two months ago." "Rodgers came to me," Mr. Sweetman added. "I think maybe I will buy, maybe for seven thousand dollars, but I do not tell him. It is bad business to buy quick and pay what is first asked." "You won't want it now," Dr. Stone said. "Maybe. First I must think." After that there was a silence in the room. Joe looked from his uncle to Frederick Wingate. The artist leaned against the mantel and seemed to find a cynical amusement in watching the man who had come with him. Strained lines had formed suddenly around the blind man's mouth. "You are afraid of ghosts, Sweetman?" he said softly. "I am afraid," the farmer answered heavily. "Yet you might buy?" "It is good land. I could tear down the house and sell it away, some here and some there." Joe saw greed gleam in the dull eyes. "Maybe with ghost talk around it will come a better price. Maybe I could yet buy for three thousand dollars." "Business first, Sweetman," the doctor said pleasantly. He snapped a finger, and at once Lady arose; and Joe, his heart pounding, hurried to get the dog's harness. Frederick Wingate still leaned against the mantel above the fireplace. "Going ghost hunting, Doctor?" "You can never tell what you'll find on a hunt," the doctor answered dryly. "Coming?" "This is the year 1934," the artist said, amused again. "Ghosts have gone out of fashion. I have letters to write." The doctor slipped the harness on the dog. Lady, alert, waited beside him for the signal to go. Mr. Sweetman had lumbered to his feet. "Care for it, Joe?" Dr. Stone asked. The boy felt the chill again in his spine. And yet---- "I'll get flashlights," he said huskily. They went up the road through the snow in silence--three men, a boy and a dog. A pale quarter of moon had risen, and the world was all white silver, and even the trees seemed ghostlike and unreal. The artist dropped out at his house to write his letters, and the others went on to Farley's. The place, Joe thought, did not look so forbidding under the softening touch of the moon. Frost had come with darkness, and the porch floor creaked under their feet. Mr. Sweetman thrust a key into a lock, the front door opened on complaining hinges, and they stepped into the damp, black, moldiness of a deserted, closed-up dwelling. "The light!" the farmer cried. "Where is the light?" Joe jumped, and switched on a flash. He had a momentary glimpse of his uncle, standing in the eternal darkness of the blind, serene and untroubled, and the sight gave him courage. The beam picked out faded walls, a chair, broken and discarded, the dusty floor, a doorway, a yawning staircase. Outside the yellow shaft of light there was naught but a blank, impenetrable, stealthy darkness. Darkness, and the hushed, unbroken silence. "Well?" Dr. Stone asked. There was a sound. At first it might have been the whimper of a wind around the eaves of the house. It rose, and fell away, and rose again. It fell away to a plaintive, worried whimper. And then, without warning, it became a human cry that filled the house with ghastly echoes. A voice--unmistakably a voice--sobbed wildly in writhing anguish. As abruptly as it had risen the cry was gone, and there was only a low, plaintive, heartbroken lamentation. Mr. Sweetman's teeth chattered. "You hear it, Doctor? From all over the house--upstairs, downstairs, everywhere." "Quiet," said Dr. Stone. There was a new sound. It seemed to come from nowhere and from everywhere. It was gone--it came again. A measured beat, a steady rhythm that hammered and throbbed like an unchanging pulse. Hammer and throb, hammer and throb! It beat upon the ears. Hammer and throb! All at once the sound stopped in the middle of a stroke and did not come again. The dark house lay in frozen silence. "Doctor!" The farmer's voice shook. "You know what that was?" "Do you, Sweetman?" The man's answer came in a hoarse whisper. "I think it was a heart beating." Joe's throat was a cramped vice. The flashlight shook in his hand and made fantastic splotches of light upon the floor. "Upstairs," Mr. Sweetman croaked. They heard the sound of footsteps on the floor above. A child's footsteps. Footsteps that ran and skipped lightly and gayly. Suddenly the sound was gone from above and in the same room in which they stood the same footsteps gamboled. Joe made a frantic circle of the room with the flash. "See!" the farmer choked. "Nothing!" A new sound joined the footfalls. Joe recognized it, and his scalp prickled. The beat of a heart! It throbbed momentarily and was gone. The unseen child continued to romp. Dr. Stone's voice, low and clear, came out of the darkness. "Lady!" Joe's light focused on the dog. Lady, her tail whipping restlessly, had eyes only for the blind master who had spoken. "Find the baby," Dr. Stone said. Joe's breath came and went in short, choking spurts. Find a ghost? He kept the unsteady light trained upon the man and the dog. The merry romp of invisible feet still filled the room. Lady, her tawny body red in the beam from the flash, went without hesitation to the nearest wall. And there she stopped, defeated, and whined. "It's all right, Lady," the blind man said quietly. His left hand held the handle-grip of the dog's harness; his right hand thrust out the cane until it touched the wall. He came closer and laid one hand upon the wall itself. The echo of young footsteps had stopped. "Come." Mr. Sweetman trembled. "It is enough." "Wait," said Dr. Stone. Without warning the dark house was awake again with sound. Upstairs a childish voice sang softly. Then footsteps once more filled the room. Not footsteps in a home, but footsteps crunching over a graveled walk. Sounds, for a moment, became confused and fragmentary--the icy-clutch beating of that heart, a child humming, the wash and gurgle of water. Footsteps again crunching gravel. Joe could almost vision a child at play. The idyllic picture was broken. All at once there was a piercing, terror-stricken scream. With amazing speed it thinned, waned, grew fainter, as though somebody was falling, falling--. Abruptly there was a heavy splash, the sound of water in commotion, a gurgling, strangling voice calling faintly for help. Joe dropped the flash, and it went out. Mr. Sweetman cried something inarticulate and plunged for the porch. Outside they heard him shouting: "Wingate! Wingate! Come quick! Wingate!" The doctor's voice, in the darkness, was steady. "Frightened, Joe?" The boy fought for control. "Not--not when I'm with you and Lady." "Good lad. Find your flash. Got it? Spot it on the wall. Look sharply, now. Does that wall look strange in any way, in any way at all?" Joe compelled himself to make the inspection. "No, sir." Roscoe Sweetman's boots thudded on the porch. The farmer came in, panting, followed by Frederick Wingate. Dr. Stone had moved away from the wall. "What's this?" the artist demanded. "Moans, screams, footsteps? It sounds like a dime novel. Let's hear them." But the house now held to a soundless quiet. Ten or fifteen minutes passed. "It looks," Dr. Stone observed, "as though our ghost has called it a day." "Sweetman," Mr. Wingate snapped impatiently, "this is the second time you've called me from my work for nothing. Where's your ghost?" "He was here," the farmer insisted. He appeared to be filled with a dull surprise. "The second time," Dr. Stone repeated thoughtfully. "I'd call that strange, Fred." "You, too, Doctor." The artist's impatience had given place to amusement. "I thought better of you than that." "Did you?" the blind man asked mildly. Joe stood rigid. His uncle's voice had carried an undertone that had not been there before. But nothing more was said. They came from the house, and Roscoe Sweetman's fumbling hand clattered the key against the lock. In the road Frederick Wingate paused. "Doctor," he asked curiously, "do you actually believe in ghosts?" "I believe what I hear," the blind man said without emotion. Joe, struck with terror, hugged close to the safety of the dog. That night his sleep was broken by dreams--dreams of a great, monstrous heart throbbing so that all could hear it and of strange screams that faded into a swift, strange silence. In the morning an east wind blew down from the mountains and the sky was gray and overcast. Twice Joe walked toward the Farley farm, and twice he turned back. He saw Mr. Sweetman, hulked over the wheel of a small car, drive toward the village and, an hour later, drive back. And all through the morning Dr. Stone sat with his beloved pipe unlighted in his hands, and by that token the boy knew that his uncle was buried in disturbed thought. Early in the afternoon Police Captain Tucker and Mr. Rodgers, the real estate man, came to the house in the captain's car. Joe hovered in the doorway. "Doctor," Mr. Rodgers demanded, "what's this talk about a ghost at Farley's? Sweetman came in to see me this morning--" "Sweetman?" The blind man was intent. "Rubbed it under my nose that there was no market for a haunted house. Said you had heard the ghost. How about it?" "Did Sweetman happen to be in a buying mood?" Dr. Stone asked quietly. "An eager mood. That's what I can't understand." "How much did he offer?" "Twenty-five hundred." And yesterday, Joe thought, the farmer had mentioned $3,000. He glanced at his uncle. The blind man had struck a match to the unlighted pipe. "We heard a little of everything, Rodgers--groans, screams, the footsteps of a child, singing." Blue smoke rose fragrantly from the pipe. "A child singing," the doctor added, and turned sightless eyes toward the captain. "What brings you into this, Tucker. Planning to arrest a ghost?" "Ghost?" Captain Tucker snorted. "I don't believe in ghosts. There's such a thing as hocus-pocus to steal away the value of a piece of property. Did you know Matt Farley?" "No." "Rodgers and I did. A friend to tie to. Matt was doing well here, but his youngest boy, about four, died. It broke him up. Two years later he closed the house and went away. Now he's out on the Coast, sick and penniless, and he asked Rodgers to sell the place and get money to him. I'm in on this to see that no swindle is put over on him." Dr. Stone asked: "How did the boy die, Tucker?" "He fell down a well and was drowned." Horror froze Joe Morrow's blood. Words passed back and forth in the room--he did not hear them. By and by the three men were in the road and headed for Farley's. He trailed along. They stopped at Mr. Sweetman's for the key. "Doctor," the farmer said heavily, "not for one thousand dollars would I go into that house again." "You'd buy it though," Dr. Stone said mildly. "Not now. Since this morning I am told that when you tear down a ghost house the ghost follows you into yours. Maybe it is so. I do not take a chance." "Who told you that?" the real estate man snapped. Mr. Sweetman's eyes shifted. "I do not say." The house, on this drab, gray day, was bleak and forbidding in its emptiness. Cold shadows lurked in the corners. However, there was daylight, you could see, and Joe did not feel the frozen terror of last night. Captain Tucker relentlessly searched the house. In the end he came up from the cellar with a paper in his hand. "Find anything," Mr. Rodgers asked eagerly. "The cover from a magazine and a scrap torn from a page. Matt's been out of here for years; this magazine is a last August issue. How did it get here?" "What magazine?" Dr. Stone asked. "It's called _Wonder World_. How did it get here?" "Sweetman has a key," the real estate man said. "Wingate did have a key. Either one of them could have brought it in." "How long did Wingate have his key?" the doctor asked suddenly. "A month, probably. Painted in here for a while. Gave me back the key at last and said it would cost too much to change the upstairs to get a studio with a northern light." "Then these things mean nothing," the captain grumbled in disappointment. He crumpled the cover and threw it into a blackened fireplace. "That scrap of paper?" Dr. Stone asked. "Half a dozen incomplete lines. Something torn out at random." "Might I have it?" Captain Tucker grunted in impatience. "I tell you it's merely a scrap----Oh, take it." They emerged from the house, and almost at once Frederick Wingate came out of his own dwelling wearing a paint-smeared apron. "By Harry!" he cried angrily, "this ceases to be a joke. Now the police are here, and next it will be in the newspapers. They'll howl it up with scare headlines, and the rabble will come down on us by train, and bus and private car. The neighborhood will be marked for sordid sensation. Sweetman's place, Farley's, mine--none of them will be worth a dollar. Nobody has heard these screams, and footsteps and heartbeats. It's hysterical imagination." "I'll come over tonight and try my imagination," Captain Tucker said. The artist stormed back into his house and slammed the door. Dr. Stone, holding to Lady's harness-grip, went serenely toward his home. Mr. Rodgers talked warmly. Wingate had the right idea--hysteria. But Joe, though silent, could still feel the tremor of his nerves. There had been screams and heartbeats. And a boy had fallen into a well and drowned! Captain Tucker and the real estate man climbed into the police car and were off. Instantly the unconcern fell away from the blind man. He held out the scrap of paper. "Read it, Joe?" The boy read the few, disjointed words on the triangular strip: If the effects sonority periments. By means of succeeded in "Does it mean anything, Uncle Dave?" he asked, puzzled. "Perhaps." Dr. Stone's face had become intent. "I think I'll walk into the village with Lady. You'd better stay here, Joe. I may be gone a long time." He was gone three hours. When he returned he was whistling softly. Darkness came early out of the drab day. Joe placed a log in the fireplace, and Dr. Stone smoked quietly and toasted his legs in the warmth of the blaze. At seven o'clock there were footsteps on the porch and a knock on the door. Frederick Wingate walked in. "Still thinking of ghosts, Doctor?" he asked humorously. The afternoon's ill-temper had disappeared. The face of the blind man was inscrutable. "Still thinking," he admitted. And then, for a time, the Farley house and the ghoulish beat of its unseen heart seemed forgotten, and Joe listened to sparkling talk of the days when Mr. Wingate had been a student in Paris and Vienna. Abruptly, in the middle of a sentence, the man stopped short. "What time will Tucker be back tonight, Doctor?" "Eight-thirty." The artist pulled back the sleeve of his coat and glanced at the heavy, elaborately-scrolled, silver wrist watch. "Eight-ten," he said. And then, seeing Joe's fascinated eyes upon the watch, he continued to hold up the bared wrist. "A curious trinket, Joe. I picked it up in Austria. Keeps time to the split second. But it has a curious trick. Do you hear it ticking?" "No, sir." "If your wrist happens to turn in exactly the right position----" The man moved his wrist, and all at once the boy heard the watch ticking out an emphatic, muffled stroke. Again the wrist moved, and the timepiece was no longer audible. The artist laughed. "Not bad, eh, Joe?" Joe said "Gosh!" and looked at his uncle. Dr. Stone had ceased to smoke. "It's going to be a bad night, Doctor," Frederick Wingate went on. "There's snow in the air. I'd advise you to sit snug and let Tucker do his ghost-hunting alone. It will be wasted time." "Why are you so sure of that, Fred?" "Come, come, Doctor. You know how I feel about goblins." "Of course. I was wondering. Last night you insisted we hadn't heard sounds. Tonight you become more positive. You predict we're not going to hear anything. Why this added certainty? Is it because you had removed the cable running between your house and Farley's?" Joe Morrow suddenly found himself tight and expectant. The good humor had been washed from the artist's face. "It was hard," the doctor said serenely, "to locate exactly where the sound originated. Lady, though, took me to one wall. After that, the trick was plain. A blind man's touch is sensitive, Fred. I felt the vibration in the wall. I asked Joe if the wall looked at all strange. He said it didn't. Who could break into a wall and then doctor it so it would let out sound freely and still look untouched? Who but an artist accustomed to skilfully blending colors? "But at first I suspected Sweetman. The man's anxiety to take advantage of a ghost scare and buy cheaply fooled me. We all stumble at times. I should have seen from the start it couldn't be Sweetman. He was greedy, but he didn't have the brains. Then, too, there were no creepy manifestations whenever you appeared. By the way, who told Sweetman the ghost would invade his house if he pulled down Farley's? You?" "You're stumbling now, Doctor, aren't you?" the artist asked. Joe saw that his eyes had become sharp and watchful. "Not now," the blind man said. "The road is too plain. Today, when Tucker searched the house, he found the cover of the August _Miracle World_ and a fragmentary scrap torn from a magazine page. Only ten words were on that scrap, Fred, but one of them was 'sonority.' It's a word dealing with sound. On a bare chance I dropped in at the public library. There I learned that one Frederick Wingate is a subscriber to _Miracle World_, and each month turns the magazine over to the library after he has read it. But this Mr. Wingate did not turn over his August copy; the library, wishing to keep a complete file, sent for the August number. There was a significant article in that number, Fred. The librarian read it to me. It had to do with sound effects by radio and telephone." Joe's lips were parted breathlessly. Frederick Wingate stood as though he had lost the power of movement. "I'm not up on those things. They developed after I became blind. Exactly how you worked the trick I do not know. After reading the August number you concocted your scheme. You took your time. But in December you got the key from Rhodes on the pretext you wanted to paint in the house and try out the light. In that month you did your wiring, broke through walls, inserted your loud speakers and tuned them to the proper pitch. The transmitting cable from your house to Farley's was probably laid on the ground under the snow. No doubt you thought you would not have to give more than five or six manifestations. Let the ghost talk start. After that you could take up the cable. The thing would be done. Farley's property would be ruined; you'd buy it in for a song. "What did you do from December to March? Practice the act? Anyway, you ran into the unexpected. Sweetman also saw a chance to buy cheaply. So you filled him with the fear of inheriting a ghost. Then, when the road seemed clear, Tucker came in. You hadn't expected the police. Today, when you protested to Tucker, Rodgers thought you were furiously indignant. I read your voice better. You were alarmed. So tonight, as soon as darkness fell, you took up the incriminating cable. You're wealthy. Why does a man of means stoop to small cupidities? Is it because he thinks it clever and smart?" The artist spoke hoarsely. "You'll admit, Doctor, that this is all rather circumstantial?" "It was until a little while ago. Then I found the absolute proof. Sometimes a thing becomes so much a part of a man that he forgets he has it and it betrays him. Do you mind telling me the time?" The artist glanced at his wrist-watch. "It is now----" His eyes, startled, stared fixedly at the doctor. "I see," he said. Dr. Stone relighted the pipe. "Might I make a suggestion. We don't want Tucker in on this. I'm more interested in Matt Farley. My suggestion is that you buy the place even below its worth, eight thousand dollars. Eight thousand will be a fortune to a man sick and penniless." Wet blotches fell against the windows. Snow! "Doctor," Frederick Wingate said, "will you believe me when I say I did not know Farley was destitute?" He picked his coat from a chair. "I'll see Rodgers in the morning and put down a deposit. Good night." The blazing log broke and fell, and sparks showered up the chimney. So there really had been no ghost! Relief went through Joe Morrow in a fervent tide. "Did--did you really have the proof, Uncle David?" "The absolute proof, Joe. You saw it yourself." "I saw it?" The boy was bewildered. Dr. Stone stretched back in the chair and placed his hands behind his head. "I don't know whether he used a telephone mouthpiece or a microphone. Whatever he used he was right in front of it. His hands must have been active--he had to produce the sounds of water, footsteps, gravel. Every time the watch began its mystifying tick----" "Oh!" Joe breathed. "Yes," the blind man said quietly. "You and Sweetman thought it was the beating of a human heart." AS A MAN SPEAKS "Hard!" said Police Captain Tucker. "That's what he is, Doctor--hard," and the policeman drove a smacking fist into the palm of his other hand to emphasize the point. The dog, lying in front of the fireplace, lifted her head. Dr. David Stone puffed his pipe serenely in the warmth of the blazing logs. The winter wind whistled about the house, a shutter banged like the report of a gun, and Joe Morrow jumped. "Talks tough, Doctor, and sticks out his chin as though asking you what you were going to do about it. I've sent out his fingerprints. Wouldn't be surprised if it turned out he was a bit of a gangster." "You have him safely in jail," Dr. Stone pointed out. "Safe enough for the present," Captain Tucker admitted, "but I can't hold him forever on mere suspicion." "Then you're not charging him with murder?" "How can I? You can't prove a murder without producing a body. Where's the corpse? Where's Boothy Wilkes, alive or dead? He hasn't been around----. You pass his place every day, Joe. When did you see him last?" "Wednesday," Joe Morrow, Dr. Stone's nephew, answered. "He asked me had I seen Jud Cory hanging around." "Nobody's seen him since Wednesday. That was six days ago. That morning he and Jud had a talk outside the post office--something about money--and suddenly Jud yelled out that he'd kill him. Dozen people heard it. And since late Wednesday Boothy hasn't been seen." "Why did Jud want to kill him?" the blind doctor asked. "How do I know?" "Might be worth looking into," the calm voice drawled. "Haven't I tried to sweat it out of him? Haven't I grilled him trying to make him tell where he hid the body? What do I get? A stuck-out chin, and a scowl, and him telling me he's not a squealer. That's gangster talk." The blind man's head rested against the back of the chair; his sightless eyes seemed to stare unblinkingly at some object on the ceiling; the pale face had the calmness of graven stone. Joe, highly excited by all this talk of murder and a hidden body, pulled at a thought that had occurred to him more than once in the past. Could anything happen that would shake his uncle out of that unruffled tranquillity? "How old did you say he was, Captain?" "Twenty." The doctor sat up and knocked the ashes of his pipe into the fireplace, "No boy is hard at twenty, Captain. He only thinks he's hard. Mind if I talk to him?" Captain Tucker sighed. "I was hoping you would." Dr. Stone reached for the dog's harness. "More work for us, old girl," he said, and the dog looked at him steadily. Joe wondered if she understood. They went out to the small police car, the tawny shepherd anxiously leading the blind man through the snow to the running-board. Crowded into the car, Joe and the dog in the rear seat, they rode toward the village. "How long is it since Jud Cory left here?" Dr. Stone asked. "Seven years. That's what I can't understand. Why should he come back after seven years to do a murder? He used to live with Boothy; did chores for his keep. We've sent for his brother." "Jud's?" "No; Boothy's." The doctor said, surprised: "I didn't know he had a brother." "Neither did anybody else. But for that matter Boothy was a tight-lipped man who told his business to no one. After the neighbors reported him missing we searched the house. Found a will and a note written the day before the quarrel outside the post office. The note said if anything happened to him----. See that, Doctor? He was afraid that something would happen." "He wrote that note the day before Jud threatened to kill him," the blind man said slowly. Joe thought that Captain Tucker had the look of a man stumbling over a rock he had not seen. "Well----." The captain coughed awkwardly. "Why couldn't Jud have gone to the house several times before that meeting outside the post office? Certainly he didn't come here planning to loiter in the streets until Boothy appeared. Anyway, the note said if anything happened to him to notify his brother, Otis Wilkes, at once." "Any witnesses to the will?" "No. Oh, it's in his handwriting. We proved that." "Who gets his property?" "This brother, Otis Wilkes." Dr. Stone said, "I'd like to meet Otis." Joe, sitting taut on the rear seat, had the feeling that his uncle had touched something hidden in the dark. The car halted outside the village lock-up. "I won't go down with you," Captain Tucker grunted. "He wouldn't talk if I were there." "I'll want Joe with me," Dr. Stone said, and a turnkey led man, boy and dog down a damp staircase. It was the first time Joe had ever seen this forbiddingly bleak corridor of cells, and his heart grew heavy with a sick chill. A key rasped in a lock, and the jail attendant threw open an iron-barred door. "Somebody to see you, Cory." "I don't want to see nobody," a voice answered harshly. The blind man said, "Lady, left," and followed the dog into the cell. Joe saw a disheveled youth who sat scowling upon a cot. At sight of them he arose with an air of bravado. The cell door closed. "What's the idea?" the harsh voice demanded. "Trying to scare me with a dog?" "Nobody's trying to scare you, Jud. Don't you remember me? I'm Dr. Stone." "Another cop?" "No," the blind man said gently; "your friend. And here's another friend--Joe Morrow. You ought to remember Joe. He was only a little tyke then, and always followed you when you brought the cows in from pasture." Joe saw the hard eyes waver. At that moment Jud Cory looked, not the murderous gangster, but a frightened, bewildered, sick-souled boy. "He always brought me a cake with raisins in it," Jud said huskily. And then, like some wild animal touched by danger, the youth had sprung back against the wall of the cell. "Hey! Trying to pull soft stuff on me? Nothing doing, I don't talk." "You've had your share of bitter days, haven't you?" Dr. Stone asked quietly. The hard eyes wavered. "I knew your father, Jud. It doesn't seem possible that his son could butcher a man for a few dollars." "It wasn't a few dollars," the lad cried thickly. "It----" Joe shivered. Then this had really been a murder for a lot of dollars. The youth had choked off the sentence and stood against the stone wall shaken by the appalling significance of what he had said. "Jud," the blind man said, "don't try to fool me and don't try to fool yourself. You're just a poor, miserable kid who's caught in a squeeze that's too tight for him. Don't you think you ought to tell me." The chin wasn't a hard chin now. It quivered, tried to steady itself; and suddenly, like a tree that snaps in a storm, Jud Cory broke. One moment he stood against the wall, still suspicious, still afraid; the next he was on the side of his cot, his head in his hands, sobbing. "You don't know what it's been like in here, Doctor. Everybody telling me I was a murderer and asking what I did with the body. When I said I'd kill him I was mad. I didn't mean it. I tell you, Doctor, I didn't mean it." The blind man groped across the cell, and sat upon the cot, and one hand reached out and rested on the boy's shoulder. The sobbing had stopped. "We--we lived in the city," came from between the lad's hands, "my pop and me, and pop got sick and they said he should go to the country. I don't know how it happened, but we came to Boothy Wilkes'. I liked it there. Then pop died, and that changed everything. I was nine then, nine nearly ten, and Wilkes made me do all the chores--said I had to earn my keep. Telling me every day I was a pauper and threatening to send me away to the pauper farm. Then he began to shout and yell that I ate too much. That was when I lit out. "I went to Philadelphia and sold newspapers. They told me to keep out of the way of the cops or they'd slap me in a home because I ought to be in school. It wasn't so bad in the summer, but in the winter it was tough. Snowy days I wouldn't sell many papers, and maybe I'd have to sleep in a hallway that night." "How old were you then, Jud?" "About fourteen." Joe shot a glance at his uncle. The unruffled tranquillity was gone. The blind man's face was dark with a bitter wrath. "I figured I'd go some place where there wouldn't be so much cold, so I beat it to California. There I got jobs doing this and that, and got along. One day, when I was out of work and feeling pretty low, a man stopped me and asked wasn't I Jud Cory. He said I looked as though I was on my uppers, and I said I was. He said I must have gone through the money pretty fast, and I asked him what money, and he said he had been cashier for the bank here and that just a few days before my father died he was sent for, and went to Wilkes' house, and that my father put nine thousand dollars in Wilkes' account for me. It seemed pop didn't want any dealings with lawyers and courts and thought Wilkes was honest. Maybe this man was telling me straight and maybe he wasn't. I got thinking it over, and it seemed maybe Wilkes had laid it on me heavy so I'd light out and he'd have the money to himself. So I came back here, and the first time I spoke to Wilkes I knew it was true." "How?" Dr. Stone asked. "By his face." "What was the name of this man, Jud?" "I--I don't know. I got so excited I forgot to ask, and when I went looking for him afterwards I couldn't find him. Does that make any difference?" "I'm afraid so." Jud Cory's hands went out in a hopeless gesture. "I don't suppose anybody'll believe me." He was up from the cot, frantic, terror-stricken. "But I didn't kill him. I didn't." "I know you didn't," Dr. Stone said quietly. "I've known that for the past ten minutes." Serenity had come back upon the blind man. Holding the handle-grip of Lady's harness he followed the dog up the damp stairway to the headquarters room. There he told Captain Tucker Jud Cory's story. "A fairy tale," the police captain scoffed. "He got it out of a book or the movies. Anyway, it doesn't explain the riddle. Where's Boothy Wilkes' body?" "Let's go to the bank," the doctor suggested. Again they rode in the police car, and again Lady cautiously conducted her master through the snow. Bryan Smith, president of the bank, admitted them to his private office and closed the door. "The Wilkes case, gentlemen?" Captain Tucker shrugged. "In a way. Cory has burst forth with a wild----" "Just a moment, Captain," Dr. Stone said sharply. "Mr. Smith, did a cashier resign eight or nine years ago?" "Eight or nine years?" The banker considered. "That would be Herman Lang. He resigned about that time." "Do you know why he resigned?" "Yes. He had an offer to join a land development company." "Where?" "In California." Joe saw Captain Tucker's mouth sag, but his uncle's face was impassive. Bryan Smith lowered his voice. "Ordinarily, gentlemen, we do not discuss our depositors' business. However, there is something I think you should know. Boothy Wilkes drew out five thousand dollars in cash the day he vanished. Cash!" The sag that had been in Captain Tucker's jaw was gone. Out in the car he spoke a positive judgment. "There's your motive, Doctor. Find Boothy's body and Cory'll soon tell us what he did with the five thousand dollars. Anyway, we all know Boothy kept a tight fist on a dime. Suppose he did rob the boy. Is that any excuse for murder?" "You haven't yet proved Jud did commit a murder," the blind man suggested gently. "The body?" Captain Tucker snapped an impatient finger. "That's only a matter of time. It couldn't have been taken far." Outside the village town hall a constable awaited their coming. Otis Wilkes, he said, had arrived from Baltimore and was now at the Wilkes farm. Captain Tucker turned the car about. Fifteen minutes later they swung into a driveway between trees and skidded to a stop. On the Wilkes porch a thin, wiry man paced back and forth restlessly. "I'd know him for a Wilkes anywhere," Captain Tucker said in an undertone. "Favors Boothy in looks, only this one's all whiskered. Mind if I use Lady while you're here, Doctor?" "What for?" "Clues. She might scent us something." As they left the car and came toward the house, Joe Morrow had eyes only for the man on the porch. A voice called down to them across the railing. "Captain Tucker?" The tone carried a high, nasal twang. "Land o' Goshen, I've been a-waitin' for you until I'm like t' freeze." The sentence ended in a choking, sputtering cough. The man spat violently with a burst of breath. "Come in; come in out of the cold." The house, untenanted for a week, was scarcely warmer than the outdoors. But it was the house from which a man had disappeared, and Joe Morrow kept staring about uneasily as though expecting to find a ghost. They went into a front room that overlooked some of the land bordering the road. Here, at least, there was sun. "Did they get him?" Otis Wilkes demanded. "This Jud Cory?" Speech was momentarily halted by that same choking cough, that same sputtering outburst of breath. "This Jud Cory who killed Boothy." Joe was conscious of a sudden, intent look on his uncle's face. Captain Tucker answered very, very slowly. "Did you stop at the police station, or did you come straight to the house?" "To the house, of course. Where else with maybe Boothy lying dead?" "How did you know he was dead?" Captain Tucker demanded. "He wrote me, Boothy did." One hand made a frantic reach for the inside pocket of his coat and drew forth a folded paper. "Boothy said it was on him. Here!" Captain Tucker read the letter aloud: Dear Otis: Like as not you'll be surprised to get this letter seeing as we have not seen or heard of each other in twenty years. But when a man feels he is going to be took, it is natural he should turn to his only kin. I have wrote a will leaving everything to you, and you will be notified when necessary. If anything should happen to me sudden, look for Jud Cory. He has made talk of killing me, and I think he is the kind to do it. Your brother, Boothy. Captain Tucker folded the letter. "Well, Doctor?" he asked in poorly-concealed satisfaction. The blind man's face was inscrutable. "Does a man facing death, a man known to keep a tight fist on a dime, stop to draw five thousand dollars in cash from a bank?" "Boothy was a-tryin' t' buy him off," Mr. Wilkes shrilled. "How do you know that, Mr. Wilkes?" "Reasonable, ain't it? Reckon a man would ruther pay five thousand dollars than be laid out stiff. What about Jud Cory?" "We have him," Captain Tucker answered, "but Boothy's missing. We believe he's been murdered." "Then why you standin' 'round wastin' time doin' nothin'?" Mr. Wilkes' outburst arose to a tremulous falsetto. "Find him. I'll pay a reward." "We're starting a search now with the dog," Captain Tucker soothed the agitated man. "If you wish to come along----" But Mr. Wilkes was seized with a shuddering reluctance. "It ain't fitten' I should, seein' as folks might say I was powerful anxious t' find him so's t' claim the property. Besides----" Straggling hairs again bothered his mouth, and there was another spell of coughing and sputtering. "Besides, I ain't so spry anymore and the cold gits into my bones. I'll set here by the window in the sun an' watch out through the apple orchard." "It's a fine orchard," Captain Tucker observed. "Boothy set great store by it," Mr. Wilkes said feelingly. "Blasted the soil with dynamite before settin' out the trees." "Coming, Captain?" Dr. Stone asked. There was an undercurrent to the words. Joe, roused out of his expectation of a ghost, saw that the strained lines were gone from his uncle's mouth and that now the face was placid and serene. The boy knew the sign. Once more Dr. Stone had touched something hidden in obscurity. Light had come to the brain that lay behind those blind eyes. And so they came outdoors, to the snow and the frozen ground. "Careful, Doctor," Captain Tucker warned. "Lady won't let me on ice," the doctor answered. "Search, old girl." The dog winnowed through the snow, back and forth, ever advancing. The quest took them past the house, on past the summer kitchen. Suddenly the animal, no longer advancing, began to dig in the snow with her paws. "She's found something," Joe cried. Out from under the snow Lady dragged a hat. Captain Tucker seized it eagerly. "It's Boothy's, Doctor. Here are his initials. B. W." The doctor asked a question. "Where are we, Joe?" Joe's throat ached. "On the driveway to the barn." "Doesn't it strike you as strange, Captain, that Boothy's hat should be found here?" "What's strange about it? Isn't this the driveway?" "That's exactly what's strange about it," the blind man answered. "If somebody wanted to dispose of a body would he drag it through the open or would he seek cover? Might not the hat have been left here to be found?" But the police officer was absorbed in a fresh discovery. The hat was sodden with snow; and yet, darker than the soak of water, was a stain above the sweat-band. "Doctor, there's something on this hat." "What?" "Blood." Dr. Stone's lips formed to a soundless whistle. "Boothy's blood?" "Why not?" "Because, Captain, if that had been human blood Lady would have shied, and whimpered, and trembled. She would have called our attention to it, but she would not have brought the hat out to us." Captain Tucker flared into temper. "Doctor, that's going too far. Even a clever dog is only a dog. We're going back." The police officer carried the gruesome find to the house. Joe stumbled in the snow. There had been that dark stain near the sweat-band; he had seen it, and was troubled. Was Uncle David wrong? They crossed the porch and entered the room where Mr. Wilkes waited, and on the instant the man cried out in nasal horror: "It's Boothy's hat. And there's blood on it." "I'm going back to the village," Captain Tucker said hurriedly. "I'm coming back with a crew of men. We'll find what's hidden here. We'll find it if we have to dig up every foot of this farm." The captain was gone. The outer door closed. Dr. Stone still stood just within the room. Outside a motor roared, and suddenly the blind man shouted. "Tucker! See that Herman Lang comes here as soon as he arrives." It seemed to Joe that Mr. Wilkes leaped and jerked in every muscle. "Lang? What about Herman Lang?" Another fit of sputtering and coughing seized him, and he spat violently. "What about him?" "Oh!" The doctor's voice was soft. "So you know Herman Lang?" "Never heerd o' him. Who is he?" "He's the bank cashier who was at this house the day Jud Cory's father trusted Boothy with nine thousand dollars. Jud came here to get that money." "Bah! A likely tale. What am I supposed to do about it?" The blind man, holding to the dog's leash, stepped well within the room. Joe edged a little to the side. He had been with his uncle on so many adventures he had developed an instinct that told him when a trap was to be sprung. And instinct told him a trap was to be sprung now. "You might answer a few questions, Mr. Wilkes. You and Boothy hadn't seen or heard from each other in twenty years?" "Maybe it was twenty-one years." "Then how did you know Boothy used dynamite to break the hardpan when he set out his orchard. Those trees were planted in the spring of 1920, thirteen years ago." Joe saw the Adam's apple in the man's throat work convulsively. "Likely I heard about it somewhere." "When Tucker came in, how did you know he had Boothy's hat?" "It must have been Boothy's--Boothy allers wore the same kind." "How did you know of the blood? You were across the room. You couldn't have distinguished a stain on a wet hat. Or--" The blind man paused. "Or did you know, before we left the room, that we were going to come back with a blood-stained hat?" Joe could almost feel the man tremble. But no words came from the stark, startled lips. "Nine thousand dollars," Dr. Stone mused. "Simple interest for eleven years at six per cent. Five hundred and forty dollars a year. A total, principal and interest, of fourteen thousand nine hundred forty dollars. Sit down, Wilkes." Mr. Wilkes sat down. "Make out a check to Jud Cory for fourteen thousand nine hundred forty dollars." Joe expected shrill, nasal protest. Instead the man sat there, huddled in tremulous abjection. By and by the fingers, strong and work-hardened, began to move slowly; and with that Joe saw a look of shrewd, calculating cunning steal into the eyes. He was like a man who, lost, sees a glimmer of hope. "Doctor, most likely this Jud Cory's been a-tellin' you a passel o' lies. But it ain't fitten to speak ill o' the dead, and Boothy's my brother and I don't hanker t' have folks a-whisperin' about him and makin' light o' his good name. Tell you what I'll do, Doctor. I'll give this Jud Cory enough to stop his mouth. Likely he'll need it, anyway, t' pay his trial lawyer." "That's kind of you," Dr. Stone said dryly. Mr. Wilkes wrote a check and pressed it into the blind man's hand. "It's no more than fair to tell you, Wilkes, that Herman Lang is not expected here." With a snarl the man was on his feet. "Give me that check!" Lady gave a warning growl, and on the instant the grasping hand was stayed. Mr. Wilkes shrank back. "It would be a simple matter to telegraph and bring him East," the doctor said pointedly. As slowly as it had come the shrewd cunning faded out of the man's eyes. He sank back into the chair. Dr. Stone held out the slip of paper. "How much is it for, Joe?" "Five thousand dollars, Uncle David." This time it was the boy who trembled. Five thousand dollars was the amount of cash Boothy Wilkes had drawn from the bank. "Signed by whom?" "By Otis Wilkes." Without haste the doctor folded the check twice, and tore it into bits. "Write another check," he ordered quietly. "This time write it for fourteen thousand nine hundred forty dollars. This time sign your own name. Sign it Boothy Wilkes." To Joe Morrow the world went topsy-turvy. Through an incredulous haze he saw a snarling man sign a check and almost hurl it into his uncle's face. As they came out upon the porch with Lady, Captain Tucker's car swung into the driveway from the road. "I'll have men here in half an hour. Where's Otis, Doctor?" "Gone. Boothy's inside." "Boothy?" "Otis, if you like that name better," the doctor said pleasantly. For the second time that day Captain Tucker's jaw sagged. Dr. Stone brought out his pipe, filled it, and puffed with calm enjoyment. "You see," he said, "Jud Cory told us the truth. When he arrived with the information that he knew of the money that was his, it was like plunging a knife into Boothy's heart. Money has rather been Boothy's god. The way to save the money came with Jud's threat to kill him that so many persons overheard. Boothy went to the bank, drew out five thousand dollars, wrote the will and the note that you found, wrote himself the letter he showed you, and went to Baltimore to await the results he knew would follow. When it was discovered he was gone people remembered Jud's threat. And so Jud was arrested, and you wrote Otis to come on, and the search began for a body that would never be found. "Boothy had it figured out nicely. As Otis he would have five thousand dollars to live on. There was no hurry. Let Jud Cory stew in jail. He would never be tried for murder, for without a corpse no murder could be proved. Public opinion, though, might try Jud for threatening life, or for disturbing the peace, or for something else. He might even be sent to the county penitentiary for nine months. All right; let him go. When he was released he would be so sick of the game, so glad to be at liberty again, that he'd take the first train out and never come back. And then, after an interval, Boothy would reappear. What story would he have told? Well, he might have claimed a complete loss of memory--aphasia, as it is called. And there he'd be with his nine thousand dollars intact and Jud Cory gone for good." Captain Tucker had recovered from his chagrin. "I can see all that now, Doctor. But how did you know he was Boothy? Man, he had me completely fooled." "There were several signs," Dr. Stone answered. "An apple orchard, for one; a hat for another. But the real give-away--" He passed the pipe under his nose and inhaled the aroma of the burning tobacco. "You wear false teeth, Captain?" "What has that to do with it?" Captain Tucker demanded impatiently. "Took you a while to get used to them, didn't it?" "Of course." "There's the answer. Boothy didn't take time to get used to them. They kept straggling out of place and interfering with his speech." "What are you talking about?" Captain Tucker cried impatiently. "False teeth?" "No," the blind man said mildly. "False whiskers." ARM OF GUILT Hurrying along the shadowed road beside Dr. David Stone and Lady, Joe Morrow was conscious of the hard pounding of his heart against his ribs. The telephone call from Police Captain Tucker had been terse and abrupt, but out of it had come alarm and revelation. The explosion he and his uncle had heard an hour ago had not been the backfire of an automobile, but the murderous bark of a pistol. And Ira Close, the Foster's hired man, had been shot, and nine-year-old Billy Foster had been kidnaped. Joe gulped. He had seen the small boy at school that afternoon. Moonlight flooded the yard in the rear of Ben Foster's house, and black shapes stood out in sharp relief. Pressed against the powerful flanks of the dog Joe strained his eyes and made them out: Mr. Foster, agitated, walking back and forth restlessly; Captain Tucker staring hard at the ground, and a third man--Why, the third man was Ira Close. The boy gave a suppressed cry. "He's there, Uncle David." "Billy?" Dr. Stone asked eagerly. "No, sir; Ira. Ira wasn't shot badly. It's only his hand. His hand is bandaged." Dr. Stone said: "Lady, left," and the dog swung them into the Foster yard. At the sound of their feet on the driveway gravel Mr. Foster gave a cry and hurried toward them. "Thank God, Doctor, you're here. If you can find him, if you can get him back----" "Are you sure," the doctor broke in quietly, "he hasn't gone to a friend's house and stayed for supper? Small boys sometimes forget to come home." Captain Tucker shook his head. "It's kidnaping. We have the ransom note. Five thousand dollars." "Ten thousand!" Mr. Foster cried wildly. "Fifteen! Any amount, so long as he comes back unharmed." "Easy," said Dr. Stone, and took out his pipe and reached into a pocket for tobacco. Amid the hysterical panic he was controlled, steady. "If we're to get any place we must try to think clearly. When was the boy seen last?" Captain Tucker answered. "Four o'clock." "Then we know he wasn't kidnaped until after four. And about eight o'clock you were given a ransom note. That means the kidnapers were in the neighborhood an hour ago. How did the note get here?" "It was brought to me," said Mr. Foster. "Who brought it?" "Ira." Dr. Stone's hand came out of his pocket without the tobacco pouch. Joe, startled, saw his uncle's eyes turn, as though by instinct, toward the hired man he could not see. Ira Close, always given to a dull, stupid sullenness, shifted his thick-set, muscular body awkwardly. "I sent him out to find Billy," Mr. Foster explained. "The boy had been gone since four o'clock when he went out of the house with a plate of food for his rabbits. I thought he might have gone trailing after that organ-grinder----" "What organ-grinder?" Dr. Stone asked sharply. Again it was Captain Tucker who answered. "A stranger, doctor. Gave his name as Pasquale Monetti. Came to the police station four days ago and paid two dollars for a permit. Had a monkey on a chain. The kids have been following him all over the village." The doctor said quietly: "How did you come to get the note, Ira?" "I went for Billy like Mr. Foster said." The man's voice was a low rumble. "Down by the Howard's woodlot there's a bang and I know I'm shot." "The right thumb," said Captain Tucker. "The bullet creased the skin." "It bled," Ira Close said unemotionally, and Joe saw blood on the handkerchief-bandage. "He tells me not to move, and ties my arms behind, and puts the note in my pocket." "He," Dr. Stone said. "What he, Ira?" "The organ-grinder." "You're sure?" "Yes." "Did you see him?" "No; I have my back turned. He does not talk our kind of American." Captain Tucker gave a grunt of exasperation. "That's too thin for identification. A thousand men within twenty miles might talk with a foreign accent. I can't understand this, Doctor. If somebody wanted to use Ira to carry a message why did they shoot close enough to hit him?" "I wonder," Dr. Stone said gravely. His hand went into his pocket and this time came out with the pouch. Slowly, almost leisurely, he filled the pipe. Joe Morrow, groping in the dark for light, abruptly grasped the cords of memory. "Ira could have known his voice," the boy cried, excited. "How's that?" Captain Tucker barked. "I saw Ira talking to the organ-grinder yesterday in front of the bank." "I asked him about the monkey," Ira said stolidly. "I thought maybe I might buy one for Billy." "Why didn't you tell us that?" Captain Tucker flared in a temper. "Here we're wasting time----" "And my boy being taken farther away every minute," Mr. Foster groaned in sick despair. "Do something! I tell you I can't stand this waiting, waiting! Do something!" "Perhaps," Dr. Stone said gently, "we have already done something. How was Ira tied, Tucker? Tight?" "I've seen them tied tighter. Didn't have to cut the rope--slipped it down over his elbows. A botchy job." "This organ-grinder?" "Swarthy, with a heavy mustache. Not over four and one-half feet tall and weighing about 135." "How much do you weigh, Ira?" the doctor asked. The hired man answered without interest. "One hundred eighty-five pounds." Joe, trying to read his uncle's face, found it inscrutable. And yet the question meant something. The pipe had gone out; Dr. Stone lighted it again. "Let's try to reconstruct this crime, Tucker. At four o'clock Billy left the house with feed for the rabbits. After that--a blank. Did he feed the rabbits and wander on? Did he ever reach the warren?" "No," Mr. Foster choked. "Whatever happened to him happened here." And then, for the first time, Joe saw what lay upon the ground in the moonlight--the shattered pieces of a blue plate, scraps of lettuce and carrot, and a boy's cap. Evidently, Billy Foster had never reached the rabbit warren with the feed. While Captain Tucker described the scene to the blind man, Joe picked up the cap. Why, they were in full view of the house. Could a boy be kidnaped in broad daylight from his own doorstep? "It couldn't have happened," Captain Tucker insisted testily. "Not here. The place is too open. Probably something startled the boy and he dropped the plate." "If he were frightened," Dr. Stone asked mildly, "why didn't he run to the house? What frightened him? Did whatever happen happen so quickly that there was no time to run? And then there's something else." "What?" Captain Tucker snapped. "The cap. It would take quite a fright to pop a cap off a boy's head." The blind man put the pipe back in his pocket. "You've kept track of this organ-grinder, haven't you, Tucker? Where has he been staying?" "Petey Ring's shack on the river." "I think," Dr. Stone said, "it might be worth our while to go down toward the river." A dozen steps toward Captain Tucker's car he paused. "You'd better have that finger looked at, Ira. Gun-shot wounds can develop lock-jaw." "Doctors want money," Ira Close said resentfully. "It's a common failing," the blind man observed pleasantly. Joe tingled. Something lay behind those four words. But again the bland face was expressionless. Petey Ring, unkempt and wrapped in a soiled apron, met them in the frowsy public room of this river "hotel." "Cap," he said, "I was just thinking of giving you a buzz. You know that bird who's been penny snatching with a monk?" Joe's mouth fell open, and Dr. Stone stopped dead in his tracks. "Where is he?" Captain Tucker demanded. "Ask me. I ain't clapped a peeper on him since this morning. Looks to me like he's taken it on the lam. You got a line out for him, Cap?" The captain shrugged. "Just checking up, Petey. What time did he shove off." "You're asking me? I thought he was out working his graft. Then there's a jabbering from his room, and there's the monk all alone in there throwing fits." Dr. Stone's voice cut in. "Where's his room?" Petey, stepping past the dog warily, led the way. The room was a squalor of untidiness. Dirty blankets were tumbled on the army cot bed, and a cracked mirror stood upon a paint-chipped dresser. The hand-organ, gaudy with cheap trappings, leaned in a corner and, attached to it by a light chain was a wizened, wrinkled, black-faced monkey. The animal flew into a rage, climbed the length of its chain and, from the top of a window-casing, shrieked and chattered. "Ira was right," Captain Tucker said harshly. "And we're too late." Joe's throat ached. Jolly Billy Foster taken by violence and held for ransom! Hidden away in some dark hole, probably, homesick and terror-stricken. He looked at his uncle. The blind man's face had become intent. "This room reeks," Dr. Stone said, "with the stench of cheap shaving soap. Search it." "For what?" Captain Tucker asked, puzzled. "Hair." Joe, conscious only of the stale stench of the room, marveled that his uncle could detect the smell of soap. He poked into the corners. Petey, lounging in the doorway, watched the search narrowly. "What's this bird been pulling, Cap?" "Kidnaping," Captain Tucker threw at him. Petey went white. "So help me, Cap. I'm out of it. You ain't got a thing on me. Take my oath. I ain't touching nothing like that. Who'd he snatch?" There was no answer. Lady, pawing, had brought a ball of paper out from under the bureau. Captain Tucker opened the wad. "Hair," he said. "There's blood, too," Joe cried. The blind man whistled soundlessly. "A shaved off mustache and a cut lip." "Tried a disguise and marked himself." Captain Tucker bolted for the door. They pushed past the alarmed, agitated Petey and left him crying after them. At the railroad station a strange agent, a relief for the regular man, came to the ticket window. "Did you sell a ticket late this afternoon or this evening to a man with a cut lip?" Captain Tucker barked the question. "Why, yes." The agent spoke with a slow, maddening drawl. "Short, dark fellow. Couldn't help noticing that lip. Looked as though----" "How many tickets did he buy?" "Why, if I recollect, he bought one. Yes; one ticket." "Where to?" "Peekskill. Yes; I remember that. Just happens that I have a married daughter in Peek----" Captain Tucker frothed. "Never mind your family. This is important. What train did he take?" The agent was galvanized into more rapid speech. "The 6:29." "Did you see him get on?" "Yes. Yes; I did. I happened to be looking out the window----" "Did he get on alone or did he have someone with him. Quick!" "He got on alone." No flicker of change showed in Dr. Stone's face, but Captain Tucker was staggered. Joe was suddenly wan and bleak. Had they followed the trail this far only to have it fail them. And then, abruptly, the police captain was pounding the grille of the ticket-window with a huge fist. "What time does that train make Peekskill? In twelve minutes? Get that key working. I want that man with the cut lip held. If he doesn't get off the train have it searched. Give me that telephone." The captain called Peekskill police. Presently they were out on the platform and he took off his cap and fanned his face. Green signal lights blinked out of the darkness down the right of way. "Doctor, what did he do with the boy?" "Perhaps he did nothing," the doctor said quietly. Joe stiffened with new hope. That tone of his uncle's--? But the captain, brooding, was lost in his own thoughts. "There's a slant to this I don't understand," he said slowly. "That boy was kidnaped in broad daylight. Snapped out of his own yard. How could a stranger have brought him through a village where he was known? How could he have been taken past his own house out to the road?" "I have been thinking about that," Dr. Stone admitted. The blind face was again intent. "Suppose we go back to the house." Mr. Foster hurried toward them with pathetic haste. "Any news?" "The organ-grinder left for Peekskill on the 6:29," Captain Tucker told him. "I've telephoned and wired. They'll pick him up when the train gets there." "Was Billy with him?" The captain made a merciful answer. "I'm not sure." Ira Close came across the yard through the moonlight. "You want me to pick up those pieces of plate, Mr. Foster?" "I'll take care of them, Ira. I--I don't want Mrs. Foster to see them." "Have you his cap?" Dr. Stone asked with that same understanding gentleness. "I don't believe he was ever taken out to the road. Now, Tucker, if you'll lead me to where the plate was dropped--. Lady, forward." Joe could feel Ira Close beside him rubbing the injured hand as though it pained, but his eyes were on the man walking beside the dog. They came to the shattered pieces of crockery. The doctor held the cap to the dog's nose. "Lady, find," he said quietly. Joe trembled. What now? Nose to the ground, the great, tawny dog sniffed for the scent. And then it moved, not toward the road but off to the left toward a grove of apple trees. The blind man pulled on the leash and the dog stopped. "What lies ahead, Foster?" "The orchard, the barn where Ira has a room in the loft, the chicken runs, the cow shed, and Billy's rabbits." Captain Tucker exploded. "Doctor, this is getting nowhere. The boy may have gone to the rabbits. That's the trail you may be following this minute." In the moonlight the sightless eyes were calm. "Aren't you forgetting the broken plate, Captain? He started out with feed. Why should he go on without it?" Beside him Joe Morrow could feel the hired man still rubbing the hand and hear the soft scraping of flesh along the bandage. The doctor appeared to listen to something in the night. "Are you going on?" Mr. Foster cried. "Tomorrow," the blind man said with that same gentleness. "The night offers obstacles. We might miss something we should see." "But to wait--to wait--" The voice broke. "We wouldn't hold you in suspense a moment longer than necessary. Tomorrow, at daybreak. Have you the cap, Joe? Don't lose it." Ira rumbled a heavy "good-night" and passed from the moonlight into the shadow of the orchard. A woman's voice called: "Pa! Pa! Captain Tucker's wanted on the telephone." The captain hurried toward the house. Dr. Stone spoke softly: "Ira's been with you a long time, Foster?" "Nine years. Surly, but a good worker. A bit gruffer than usual tonight. Billy was always a little afraid of him; that's probably on his mind. And then this shooting and the loss of his money." "Money?" "Three hundred dollars. He drew it out yesterday to send to his sister and carried it in a hip pocket. That's the pocket in which the organ-grinder put the note. The money's gone." The blind man's head was thrown back; Joe saw the lips strained and tight once more. Captain Tucker came out of the house, slowly. "Bad news," he blurted. "Our man fooled us. Wasn't on the train; slipped off at one of the way stations." Mr. Foster swayed unsteadily. "Don't," he begged hoarsely, "tell Billy's mother." The policeman walked down the driveway with the doctor. "That Italian may have left the train a station or two out, and come back for the boy. I've ordered every road out of the village guarded." Joe came away with a choking lump in his throat. The blind man, holding the harness and walking close to the dog, whistled an almost soundless whistle. The boy knew, by this sign, that the brain behind the sightless eyes had caught a glimmer of light. Suddenly, without warning, the apple-scented peace of the night was broken by a flash and a roar. A whistling whine filled the air. "Drop!" Dr. Stone cried. Not until he lay prone in the road did the boy grasp the significance of flash and roar. Somebody had fired on them from ambush. A shuddering chill ran up his spine, and sweat stood out upon his forehead. The moon-splashed world was silent again, and faintly to his nostrils came the drift of burnt powder. Dr. Stone stood up. "Another shot," he called clearly, "and I'll send the dog to tear you down. Come, Joe." Quaking, Joe stood up. They moved ahead again, and the boy's nerves were torture-tight as he waited for another flash and roar. But the silence remained unbroken and they came at last to the welcome protection of home. The boy's voice trembled. "Why did the organ-grinder come back and shoot at us?" "That bullet," Dr. Stone said grimly, "was intended for Lady, not for us." His hand fell upon the dog's head. "Old girl, somebody's afraid you know too much." In the chill dark of the following morning the boy and the man gulped hot coffee in the kitchen. Arising from the table Dr. Stone walked to a desk in the hall, took out a small first-aid kit, and slipped it into a pocket. Then man, boy and dog were out in the road, when the first golden streak was faint in the eastern sky. Captain Tucker's car stood in the driveway. Mr. Foster looked as though he had not slept. Ira Close, his right hand wrapped in a handkerchief, went about small chores. Dr. Stone said: "Could Ira get Lady a drink, Foster?" Ira brought water in a pan. The blind man, shifting the leash, stumbled against the dog and tottered. Joe, with a cry of alarm, sprang forward. But the doctor's arms, outstretched, had gone around the hired man; they slipped along the stout body, down, down--. He caught himself and stood erect. Ira Close swore morosely and swung an arm. "That finger?" Dr. Stone asked, concerned. "I warned you. Why didn't you have a doctor see it?" "I fixed it myself." "Nonsense. Here; give it to me." After a moment of hesitation the hand was held out. Joe watched his uncle's fingers move as though they had eyes. The tweezers came out of the kit. Abruptly the doctor's body was between him and the throbbing wound. "Fever in here," the blind man said; "infected." Ira Close cried aloud. Joe glimpsed a corner of his uncle's face, intent, strained; then there was the drip of iodine, and Dr. Stone stepped back. The blind eyes were bland and serene. "Have Mrs. Foster bandage it," he said. Ira went into the house. The kitchen door slammed shut, and immediately tranquility left the doctor. "Tucker, stay here. Joe, this way. A few minutes, Foster; just a few minutes." Back where the broken plate had lain yesterday, Dr. Stone unhooked the leash and gave the dog the scent of the cap. "Lady, find," he urged. The tawny dog, as though puzzled by the absence of the leash, looked up inquiringly. "Find," the man said again. Lady, nose down, padded toward the orchard. "Take me back, Joe." The boy had the feeling that they hung in air. Ira Close came out of the house with a finger freshly bandaged. Captain Tucker gave an exclamation of surprise. "Doctor! Where's the dog?" Lady made her own answer. From some place in the near distance they heard her deep-toned, full-throated, insistent bark. "Foster," Dr. Stone said quietly, "I think Lady has found your boy." Two men began to run--Foster toward the orchard, Ira Close toward the road. To Joe Morrow the world whirled and spun. Dr. Stone cried, "Look out, Tucker; he has a gun." The policeman leaped, and the hired man went down. With amazing quickness brawny arms turned Ira over, and the first shaft of sunlight glinted on a blue barrel. "See if there are two exploded cartridges," the doctor called. Captain Tucker broke the gun. "Two," he said. "What does this mean, Doctor?" "It means you have your kidnaper." And so it came that Ira Close, snarling and venomous, sat handcuffed in Captain Tucker's police car. "Where's the boy, Doctor?" "In the barn, most likely. Not a bad idea, was it? Snatch the boy and hide him away three hundred feet from his home. Who'd think of looking for him there? Why should anybody look for him there when the hue and cry had gone out for an organ-grinder who had disappeared after trying to disguise himself? "Why did Ira do it? You'll have to ask him. The papers have been full of kidnapings and ransoms. Probably, with a greed for money, he'd been turning the thing in his mind for a long time. Then came the organ-grinder, and that brought inspiration. But there was one point, Tucker, you failed to take into account, and that was why I was not surprised to learn the Italian had boarded the train alone. A man, fleeing after a crime, does not shave off his mustache and leave the clipped hairs behind him to advertise his disguise. "Ira snapped Billy up yesterday afternoon. The boy had never liked him; there was a momentary struggle. The signs of it lay upon the ground. Probably he hid the boy in the barn loft and gagged him. With the coming of night there was alarm in the Foster home. 'Ira, go see if you can find Billy!' He had anticipated that command. And so he went forth, and managed to run a noose up his arms, and came back with the note and a cock-and-bull story. He was loosely tied. Did you ever see a captive who was not tied tightly? For this Italian to tie Ira, a taller man, he would have to put away his gun. Can you picture 185-pound Ira allowing a 135-pound stripling, no longer flourishing a pistol, to wind him with a rope? It didn't hold together. "Nor was that the only point where the story didn't hold together. Ira made positive identification of the organ-grinder. He identified him through a foreign accent. But he said nothing of a previous meeting until Joe told of seeing them in conversation. Where had that conversation been held? Outside the bank. Not significant in itself, but strikingly significant when we find Ira suddenly announcing to Foster that he had drawn three hundred dollars from the bank to send to his sister and that it had been stolen from his pocket. "What's your guess about that three hundred dollars, Tucker? Mine is that it went to the organ-grinder. The Italian is guilty of no wrong. All he knows is that a stranger offered him three hundred dollars to shave off his mustache, abandon his organ and monkey, disappear quietly and leave the train before reaching the station for which he had purchased a ticket. Why did Ira tell us about the three hundred dollars? What's your guess, Tucker? Mine is that he was suddenly touched with a cold fear. The withdrawal of the money was a matter of record at the bank. The money was taken out the day of the kidnaping, the day of the organ-grinder's disappearance. These facts might have given rise to a few unpleasant questions." Joe, breathless, looked at Captain Tucker. The policeman frowned doubtfully. "How about that shot in the finger, Doctor? Do you mean he shot himself?" "What's your guess?" Dr. Stone asked mildly. "Mine is that, when he was sent out to look for Billy, he fired a shot in the air as an after-thought. Do you remember, when we got there, that his hand pained? He kept rubbing it as though it throbbed. Infection doesn't set in so quickly, Captain; there must be a period of incubation. He had cut that finger earlier in the day. He objected to going to a doctor even after I warned him of lock-jaw. Why? Because he didn't fear the lock-jaw that may follow a gun-shot wound. Because he knew that no doctor would look at that wound and believe it came from a bullet. Of course, he let me handle it; but, then, I am blind. He figured I didn't count. My guess is that, in running the rope over his arms, he reopened a wound he had received earlier in the day." "By the Eternal," Captain Tucker burst out, "this seems to be nothing but guesses. You guess this and you guess that. How about a few facts. We have placed this man in irons. If Billy isn't found you and I may discover ourselves in a sweet peck of trouble." A voice called from the house: "Captain Tucker! Telephone." The captain mounted the porch steps. The doctor, fishing out his pipe, methodically stuffed it with tobacco. "I can't understand," he said musingly, "why you didn't light out last night, Ira, after trying to shoot Lady. Afraid to run and lose five thousand dollars, and afraid to stay and be caught. You were in one sweet peck of trouble, weren't you, Ira?" Ira said nothing. "How were you going to work it? Collect the money and then get word to them where to find the boy?" The hired man glared in impotent fury. Captain Tucker, looking slightly dazed, came back to the car. "They picked up our Italian in a small village fifteen miles above Peekskill." "Search him, Captain?" "Of course." "Did they," the doctor asked mildly, "find three hundred dollars in his pocket?" "Three hundred dollars to the penny in one roll." The captain fanned his face with his uniform cap. Abruptly the motion of the cap stopped. "Look here, Doctor; you said you found the first clew in that injured hand." "The first clew and the last," the doctor told him. "The last? Did you find something else when you dressed that finger a little while ago?" The blind man puffed serenely on the pipe. "I found a nasty cut and something foreign imbedded in the cut. It had set up the infection; I could feel it under the pressure of my fingers. I took it out with the tweezers. Something hard and gritty, Captain. I haven't seen it; it's safely stowed away in my pocket. But I'll stake my soul it's a chipped splinter from a broken blue plate." At that moment Joe Morrow saw Lady and Mr. Foster emerge from the orchard, and the man carried a small boy in his arms. * * * * * * Transcriber's note: --The copyright notice from the printed edition was preserved, although this book is in the public domain in the country of publication. --Typographical errors were corrected without comment. --Nonstandard spellings and dialect were not changed. 
34732	----	MAX CARRADOS By Ernest Bramah Methuen & Co., Ltd. 1914 CONTENTS PAGE THE COIN OF DIONYSIUS 1 THE KNIGHT'S CROSS SIGNAL PROBLEM 25 THE TRAGEDY AT BROOKBEND COTTAGE 66 THE CLEVER MRS STRAITHWAITE 99 THE LAST EXPLOIT OF HARRY THE ACTOR 138 THE TILLING SHAW MYSTERY 187 THE COMEDY AT FOUNTAIN COTTAGE 224 THE GAME PLAYED IN THE DARK 262 MAX CARRADOS THE COIN OF DIONYSIUS It was eight o'clock at night and raining, scarcely a time when a business so limited in its clientele as that of a coin dealer could hope to attract any customer, but a light was still showing in the small shop that bore over its window the name of Baxter, and in the even smaller office at the back the proprietor himself sat reading the latest _Pall Mall_. His enterprise seemed to be justified, for presently the door bell gave its announcement, and throwing down his paper Mr Baxter went forward. As a matter of fact the dealer had been expecting someone and his manner as he passed into the shop was unmistakably suggestive of a caller of importance. But at the first glance towards his visitor the excess of deference melted out of his bearing, leaving the urbane, self-possessed shopman in the presence of the casual customer. "Mr Baxter, I think?" said the latter. He had laid aside his dripping umbrella and was unbuttoning overcoat and coat to reach an inner pocket. "You hardly remember me, I suppose? Mr Carlyle--two years ago I took up a case for you----" "To be sure. Mr Carlyle, the private detective----" "Inquiry agent," corrected Mr Carlyle precisely. "Well," smiled Mr Baxter, "for that matter I am a coin dealer and not an antiquarian or a numismatist. Is there anything in that way that I can do for you?" "Yes," replied his visitor; "it is my turn to consult you." He had taken a small wash-leather bag from the inner pocket and now turned something carefully out upon the counter. "What can you tell me about that?" The dealer gave the coin a moment's scrutiny. "There is no question about this," he replied. "It is a Sicilian tetradrachm of Dionysius." "Yes, I know that--I have it on the label out of the cabinet. I can tell you further that it's supposed to be one that Lord Seastoke gave two hundred and fifty pounds for at the Brice sale in '94." "It seems to me that you can tell me more about it than I can tell you," remarked Mr Baxter. "What is it that you really want to know?" "I want to know," replied Mr Carlyle, "whether it is genuine or not." "Has any doubt been cast upon it?" "Certain circumstances raised a suspicion--that is all." The dealer took another look at the tetradrachm through his magnifying glass, holding it by the edge with the careful touch of an expert. Then he shook his head slowly in a confession of ignorance. "Of course I could make a guess----" "No, don't," interrupted Mr Carlyle hastily. "An arrest hangs on it and nothing short of certainty is any good to me." "Is that so, Mr Carlyle?" said Mr Baxter, with increased interest. "Well, to be quite candid, the thing is out of my line. Now if it was a rare Saxon penny or a doubtful noble I'd stake my reputation on my opinion, but I do very little in the classical series." Mr Carlyle did not attempt to conceal his disappointment as he returned the coin to the bag and replaced the bag in the inner pocket. "I had been relying on you," he grumbled reproachfully. "Where on earth am I to go now?" "There is always the British Museum." "Ah, to be sure, thanks. But will anyone who can tell me be there now?" "Now? No fear!" replied Mr Baxter. "Go round in the morning----" "But I must know to-night," explained the visitor, reduced to despair again. "To-morrow will be too late for the purpose." Mr Baxter did not hold out much encouragement in the circumstances. "You can scarcely expect to find anyone at business now," he remarked. "I should have been gone these two hours myself only I happened to have an appointment with an American millionaire who fixed his own time." Something indistinguishable from a wink slid off Mr Baxter's right eye. "Offmunson he's called, and a bright young pedigree-hunter has traced his descent from Offa, King of Mercia. So he--quite naturally--wants a set of Offas as a sort of collateral proof." "Very interesting," murmured Mr Carlyle, fidgeting with his watch. "I should love an hour's chat with you about your millionaire customers--some other time. Just now--look here, Baxter, can't you give me a line of introduction to some dealer in this sort of thing who happens to live in town? You must know dozens of experts." "Why, bless my soul, Mr Carlyle, I don't know a man of them away from his business," said Mr Baxter, staring. "They may live in Park Lane or they may live in Petticoat Lane for all I know. Besides, there aren't so many experts as you seem to imagine. And the two best will very likely quarrel over it. You've had to do with 'expert witnesses,' I suppose?" "I don't want a witness; there will be no need to give evidence. All I want is an absolutely authoritative pronouncement that I can act on. Is there no one who can really say whether the thing is genuine or not?" Mr Baxter's meaning silence became cynical in its implication as he continued to look at his visitor across the counter. Then he relaxed. "Stay a bit; there is a man--an amateur--I remember hearing wonderful things about some time ago. They say he really does know." "There you are," exclaimed Mr Carlyle, much relieved. "There always is someone. Who is he?" "Funny name," replied Baxter. "Something Wynn or Wynn something." He craned his neck to catch sight of an important motor car that was drawing to the kerb before his window. "Wynn Carrados! You'll excuse me now, Mr Carlyle, won't you? This looks like Mr Offmunson." Mr Carlyle hastily scribbled the name down on his cuff. "Wynn Carrados, right. Where does he live?" "Haven't the remotest idea," replied Baxter, referring the arrangement of his tie to the judgment of the wall mirror. "I have never seen the man myself. Now, Mr Carlyle, I'm sorry I can't do any more for you. You won't mind, will you?" Mr Carlyle could not pretend to misunderstand. He enjoyed the distinction of holding open the door for the transatlantic representative of the line of Offa as he went out, and then made his way through the muddy streets back to his office. There was only one way of tracing a private individual at such short notice--through the pages of the directories, and the gentleman did not flatter himself by a very high estimate of his chances. Fortune favoured him, however. He very soon discovered a Wynn Carrados living at Richmond, and, better still, further search failed to unearth another. There was, apparently, only one householder at all events of that name in the neighbourhood of London. He jotted down the address and set out for Richmond. The house was some distance from the station, Mr Carlyle learned. He took a taxicab and drove, dismissing the vehicle at the gate. He prided himself on his power of observation and the accuracy of the deductions which resulted from it--a detail of his business. "It's nothing more than using one's eyes and putting two and two together," he would modestly declare, when he wished to be deprecatory rather than impressive, and by the time he had reached the front door of "The Turrets" he had formed some opinion of the position and tastes of the man who lived there. A man-servant admitted Mr Carlyle and took in his card--his private card with the bare request for an interview that would not detain Mr Carrados for ten minutes. Luck still favoured him; Mr Carrados was at home and would see him at once. The servant, the hall through which they passed, and the room into which he was shown, all contributed something to the deductions which the quietly observant gentleman was half unconsciously recording. "Mr Carlyle," announced the servant. The room was a library or study. The only occupant, a man of about Carlyle's own age, had been using a typewriter up to the moment of his visitor's entrance. He now turned and stood up with an expression of formal courtesy. "It's very good of you to see me at this hour," apologized the caller. The conventional expression of Mr Carrados's face changed a little. "Surely my man has got your name wrong?" he exclaimed. "Isn't it Louis Calling?" The visitor stopped short and his agreeable smile gave place to a sudden flash of anger or annoyance. "No, sir," he replied stiffly. "My name is on the card which you have before you." "I beg your pardon," said Mr Carrados, with perfect good-humour. "I hadn't seen it. But I used to know a Calling some years ago--at St Michael's." "St Michael's!" Mr Carlyle's features underwent another change, no less instant and sweeping than before. "St Michael's! Wynn Carrados? Good heavens! it isn't Max Wynn--old 'Winning' Wynn?" "A little older and a little fatter--yes," replied Carrados. "I _have_ changed my name, you see." "Extraordinary thing meeting like this," said his visitor, dropping into a chair and staring hard at Mr Carrados. "I have changed more than my name. How did you recognize me?" "The voice," replied Carrados. "It took me back to that little smoke-dried attic den of yours where we----" "My God!" exclaimed Carlyle bitterly, "don't remind me of what we were going to do in those days." He looked round the well-furnished, handsome room and recalled the other signs of wealth that he had noticed. "At all events, you seem fairly comfortable, Wynn." "I am alternately envied and pitied," replied Carrados, with a placid tolerance of circumstance that seemed characteristic of him. "Still, as you say, I am fairly comfortable." "Envied, I can understand. But why are you pitied?" "Because I am blind," was the tranquil reply. "Blind!" exclaimed Mr Carlyle, using his own eyes superlatively. "Do you mean--literally blind?" "Literally.... I was riding along a bridle-path through a wood about a dozen years ago with a friend. He was in front. At one point a twig sprang back--you know how easily a thing like that happens. It just flicked my eye--nothing to think twice about." "And that blinded you?" "Yes, ultimately. It's called amaurosis." "I can scarcely believe it. You seem so sure and self-reliant. Your eyes are full of expression--only a little quieter than they used to be. I believe you were typing when I came.... Aren't you having me?" "You miss the dog and the stick?" smiled Carrados. "No; it's a fact." "What an awful infliction for you, Max. You were always such an impulsive, reckless sort of fellow--never quiet. You must miss such a fearful lot." "Has anyone else recognized you?" asked Carrados quietly. "Ah, that was the voice, you said," replied Carlyle. "Yes; but other people heard the voice as well. Only I had no blundering, self-confident eyes to be hoodwinked." "That's a rum way of putting it," said Carlyle. "Are your ears never hoodwinked, may I ask?" "Not now. Nor my fingers. Nor any of my other senses that have to look out for themselves." "Well, well," murmured Mr Carlyle, cut short in his sympathetic emotions. "I'm glad you take it so well. Of course, if you find it an advantage to be blind, old man----" He stopped and reddened. "I beg your pardon," he concluded stiffly. "Not an advantage perhaps," replied the other thoughtfully. "Still it has compensations that one might not think of. A new world to explore, new experiences, new powers awakening; strange new perceptions; life in the fourth dimension. But why do you beg my pardon, Louis?" "I am an ex-solicitor, struck off in connexion with the falsifying of a trust account, Mr Carrados," replied Carlyle, rising. "Sit down, Louis," said Carrados suavely. His face, even his incredibly living eyes, beamed placid good-nature. "The chair on which you will sit, the roof above you, all the comfortable surroundings to which you have so amiably alluded, are the direct result of falsifying a trust account. But do I call you 'Mr Carlyle' in consequence? Certainly not, Louis." "I did not falsify the account," cried Carlyle hotly. He sat down, however, and added more quietly: "But why do I tell you all this? I have never spoken of it before." "Blindness invites confidence," replied Carrados. "We are out of the running--human rivalry ceases to exist. Besides, why shouldn't you? In my case the account _was_ falsified." "Of course that's all bunkum, Max," commented Carlyle. "Still, I appreciate your motive." "Practically everything I possess was left to me by an American cousin, on the condition that I took the name of Carrados. He made his fortune by an ingenious conspiracy of doctoring the crop reports and unloading favourably in consequence. And I need hardly remind you that the receiver is equally guilty with the thief." "But twice as safe. I know something of that, Max.... Have you any idea what my business is?" "You shall tell me," replied Carrados. "I run a private inquiry agency. When I lost my profession I had to do something for a living. This occurred. I dropped my name, changed my appearance and opened an office. I knew the legal side down to the ground and I got a retired Scotland Yard man to organize the outside work." "Excellent!" cried Carrados. "Do you unearth many murders?" "No," admitted Mr Carlyle; "our business lies mostly on the conventional lines among divorce and defalcation." "That's a pity," remarked Carrados. "Do you know, Louis, I always had a secret ambition to be a detective myself. I have even thought lately that I might still be able to do something at it if the chance came my way. That makes you smile?" "Well, certainly, the idea----" "Yes, the idea of a blind detective--the blind tracking the alert----" "Of course, as you say, certain faculties are no doubt quickened," Mr Carlyle hastened to add considerately, "but, seriously, with the exception of an artist, I don't suppose there is any man who is more utterly dependent on his eyes." Whatever opinion Carrados might have held privately, his genial exterior did not betray a shadow of dissent. For a full minute he continued to smoke as though he derived an actual visual enjoyment from the blue sprays that travelled and dispersed across the room. He had already placed before his visitor a box containing cigars of a brand which that gentleman keenly appreciated but generally regarded as unattainable, and the matter-of-fact ease and certainty with which the blind man had brought the box and put it before him had sent a questioning flicker through Carlyle's mind. "You used to be rather fond of art yourself, Louis," he remarked presently. "Give me your opinion of my latest purchase--the bronze lion on the cabinet there." Then, as Carlyle's gaze went about the room, he added quickly: "No, not that cabinet--the one on your left." Carlyle shot a sharp glance at his host as he got up, but Carrados's expression was merely benignly complacent. Then he strolled across to the figure. "Very nice," he admitted. "Late Flemish, isn't it?" "No. It is a copy of Vidal's 'Roaring lion.'" "Vidal?" "A French artist." The voice became indescribably flat. "He, also, had the misfortune to be blind, by the way." "You old humbug, Max!" shrieked Carlyle, "you've been thinking that out for the last five minutes." Then the unfortunate man bit his lip and turned his back towards his host. "Do you remember how we used to pile it up on that obtuse ass Sanders and then roast him?" asked Carrados, ignoring the half-smothered exclamation with which the other man had recalled himself. "Yes," replied Carlyle quietly. "This is very good," he continued, addressing himself to the bronze again. "How ever did he do it?" "With his hands." "Naturally. But, I mean, how did he study his model?" "Also with his hands. He called it 'seeing near.'" "Even with a lion--handled it?" "In such cases he required the services of a keeper, who brought the animal to bay while Vidal exercised his own particular gifts.... You don't feel inclined to put me on the track of a mystery, Louis?" Unable to regard this request as anything but one of old Max's unquenchable pleasantries, Mr Carlyle was on the point of making a suitable reply when a sudden thought caused him to smile knowingly. Up to that point he had, indeed, completely forgotten the object of his visit. Now that he remembered the doubtful Dionysius and Mr Baxter's recommendation he immediately assumed that some mistake had been made. Either Max was not the Wynn Carrados he had been seeking or else the dealer had been misinformed; for although his host was wonderfully expert in the face of his misfortune, it was inconceivable that he could decide the genuineness of a coin without seeing it. The opportunity seemed a good one of getting even with Carrados by taking him at his word. "Yes," he accordingly replied, with crisp deliberation, as he recrossed the room; "yes, I will, Max. Here is the clue to what seems to be a rather remarkable fraud." He put the tetradrachm into his host's hand. "What do you make of it?" For a few seconds Carrados handled the piece with the delicate manipulation of his finger-tips while Carlyle looked on with a self-appreciative grin. Then with equal gravity the blind man weighed the coin in the balance of his hand. Finally he touched it with his tongue. "Well?" demanded the other. "Of course I have not much to go on, and if I was more fully in your confidence I might come to another conclusion----" "Yes, yes," interposed Carlyle, with amused encouragement. "Then I should advise you to arrest the parlourmaid, Nina Brun, communicate with the police authorities of Padua for particulars of the career of Helene Brunesi, and suggest to Lord Seastoke that he should return to London to see what further depredations have been made in his cabinet." Mr Carlyle's groping hand sought and found a chair, on to which he dropped blankly. His eyes were unable to detach themselves for a single moment from the very ordinary spectacle of Mr Carrados's mildly benevolent face, while the sterilized ghost of his now forgotten amusement still lingered about his features. "Good heavens!" he managed to articulate, "how do you know?" "Isn't that what you wanted of me?" asked Carrados suavely. "Don't humbug, Max," said Carlyle severely. "This is no joke." An undefined mistrust of his own powers suddenly possessed him in the presence of this mystery. "How do you come to know of Nina Brun and Lord Seastoke?" "You are a detective, Louis," replied Carrados. "How does one know these things? By using one's eyes and putting two and two together." Carlyle groaned and flung out an arm petulantly. "Is it all bunkum, Max? Do you really see all the time--though that doesn't go very far towards explaining it." "Like Vidal, I see very well--at close quarters," replied Carrados, lightly running a forefinger along the inscription on the tetradrachm. "For longer range I keep another pair of eyes. Would you like to test them?" Mr Carlyle's assent was not very gracious; it was, in fact, faintly sulky. He was suffering the annoyance of feeling distinctly unimpressive in his own department; but he was also curious. "The bell is just behind you, if you don't mind," said his host. "Parkinson will appear. You might take note of him while he is in." The man who had admitted Mr Carlyle proved to be Parkinson. "This gentleman is Mr Carlyle, Parkinson," explained Carrados the moment the man entered. "You will remember him for the future?" Parkinson's apologetic eye swept the visitor from head to foot, but so lightly and swiftly that it conveyed to that gentleman the comparison of being very deftly dusted. "I will endeavour to do so, sir," replied Parkinson, turning again to his master. "I shall be at home to Mr Carlyle whenever he calls. That is all." "Very well, sir." "Now, Louis," remarked Mr Carrados briskly, when the door had closed again, "you have had a good opportunity of studying Parkinson. What is he like?" "In what way?" "I mean as a matter of description. I am a blind man--I haven't seen my servant for twelve years--what idea can you give me of him? I asked you to notice." "I know you did, but your Parkinson is the sort of man who has very little about him to describe. He is the embodiment of the ordinary. His height is about average----" "Five feet nine," murmured Carrados. "Slightly above the mean." "Scarcely noticeably so. Clean-shaven. Medium brown hair. No particularly marked features. Dark eyes. Good teeth." "False," interposed Carrados. "The teeth--not the statement." "Possibly," admitted Mr Carlyle. "I am not a dental expert and I had no opportunity of examining Mr Parkinson's mouth in detail. But what is the drift of all this?" "His clothes?" "Oh, just the ordinary evening dress of a valet. There is not much room for variety in that." "You noticed, in fact, nothing special by which Parkinson could be identified?" "Well, he wore an unusually broad gold ring on the little finger of the left hand." "But that is removable. And yet Parkinson has an ineradicable mole--a small one, I admit--on his chin. And you a human sleuth-hound. Oh, Louis!" "At all events," retorted Carlyle, writhing a little under this good-humoured satire, although it was easy enough to see in it Carrados's affectionate intention--"at all events, I dare say I can give as good a description of Parkinson as he can give of me." "That is what we are going to test. Ring the bell again." "Seriously?" "Quite. I am trying my eyes against yours. If I can't give you fifty out of a hundred I'll renounce my private detectorial ambition for ever." "It isn't quite the same," objected Carlyle, but he rang the bell. "Come in and close the door, Parkinson," said Carrados when the man appeared. "Don't look at Mr Carlyle again--in fact, you had better stand with your back towards him, he won't mind. Now describe to me his appearance as you observed it." Parkinson tendered his respectful apologies to Mr Carlyle for the liberty he was compelled to take, by the deferential quality of his voice. "Mr Carlyle, sir, wears patent leather boots of about size seven and very little used. There are five buttons, but on the left boot one button--the third up--is missing, leaving loose threads and not the more usual metal fastener. Mr Carlyle's trousers, sir, are of a dark material, a dark grey line of about a quarter of an inch width on a darker ground. The bottoms are turned permanently up and are, just now, a little muddy, if I may say so." "Very muddy," interposed Mr Carlyle generously. "It is a wet night, Parkinson." "Yes, sir; very unpleasant weather. If you will allow me, sir, I will brush you in the hall. The mud is dry now, I notice. Then, sir," continued Parkinson, reverting to the business in hand, "there are dark green cashmere hose. A curb-pattern key-chain passes into the left-hand trouser pocket." From the visitor's nether garments the photographic-eyed Parkinson proceeded to higher ground, and with increasing wonder Mr Carlyle listened to the faithful catalogue of his possessions. His fetter-and-link albert of gold and platinum was minutely described. His spotted blue ascot, with its gentlemanly pearl scarfpin, was set forth, and the fact that the buttonhole in the left lapel of his morning coat showed signs of use was duly noted. What Parkinson saw he recorded but he made no deductions. A handkerchief carried in the cuff of the right sleeve was simply that to him and not an indication that Mr Carlyle was, indeed, left-handed. But a more delicate part of Parkinson's undertaking remained. He approached it with a double cough. "As regards Mr Carlyle's personal appearance; sir----" "No, enough!" cried the gentleman concerned hastily. "I am more than satisfied. You are a keen observer, Parkinson." "I have trained myself to suit my master's requirements, sir," replied the man. He looked towards Mr Carrados, received a nod and withdrew. Mr Carlyle was the first to speak. "That man of yours would be worth five pounds a week to me, Max," he remarked thoughtfully. "But, of course----" "I don't think that he would take it," replied Carrados, in a voice of equally detached speculation. "He suits me very well. But you have the chance of using his services--indirectly." "You still mean that--seriously?" "I notice in you a chronic disinclination to take me seriously, Louis. It is really--to an Englishman--almost painful. Is there something inherently comic about me or the atmosphere of The Turrets?" "No, my friend," replied Mr Carlyle, "but there is something essentially prosperous. That is what points to the improbable. Now what is it?" "It might be merely a whim, but it is more than that," replied Carrados. "It is, well, partly vanity, partly _ennui_, partly"--certainly there was something more nearly tragic in his voice than comic now--"partly hope." Mr Carlyle was too tactful to pursue the subject. "Those are three tolerable motives," he acquiesced. "I'll do anything you want, Max, on one condition." "Agreed. And it is?" "That you tell me how you knew so much of this affair." He tapped the silver coin which lay on the table near them. "I am not easily flabbergasted," he added. "You won't believe that there is nothing to explain--that it was purely second-sight?" "No," replied Carlyle tersely; "I won't." "You are quite right. And yet the thing is very simple." "They always are--when you know," soliloquized the other. "That's what makes them so confoundedly difficult when you don't." "Here is this one then. In Padua, which seems to be regaining its old reputation as the birthplace of spurious antiques, by the way, there lives an ingenious craftsman named Pietro Stelli. This simple soul, who possesses a talent not inferior to that of Cavino at his best, has for many years turned his hand to the not unprofitable occupation of forging rare Greek and Roman coins. As a collector and student of certain Greek colonials and a specialist in forgeries I have been familiar with Stelli's workmanship for years. Latterly he seems to have come under the influence of an international crook called--at the moment--Dompierre, who soon saw a way of utilizing Stelli's genius on a royal scale. Helene Brunesi, who in private life is--and really is, I believe--Madame Dompierre, readily lent her services to the enterprise." "Quite so," nodded Mr Carlyle, as his host paused. "You see the whole sequence, of course?" "Not exactly--not in detail," confessed Mr Carlyle. "Dompierre's idea was to gain access to some of the most celebrated cabinets of Europe and substitute Stelli's fabrications for the genuine coins. The princely collection of rarities that he would thus amass might be difficult to dispose of safely but I have no doubt that he had matured his plans. Helene, in the person of Nina Bran, an Anglicised French parlourmaid--a part which she fills to perfection--was to obtain wax impressions of the most valuable pieces and to make the exchange when the counterfeits reached her. In this way it was obviously hoped that the fraud would not come to light until long after the real coins had been sold, and I gather that she has already done her work successfully in several houses. Then, impressed by her excellent references and capable manner, my housekeeper engaged her, and for a few weeks she went about her duties here. It was fatal to this detail of the scheme, however, that I have the misfortune to be blind. I am told that Helene has so innocently angelic a face as to disarm suspicion, but I was incapable of being impressed and that good material was thrown away. But one morning my material fingers--which, of course, knew nothing of Helene's angelic face--discovered an unfamiliar touch about the surface of my favourite Euclideas, and, although there was doubtless nothing to be seen, my critical sense of smell reported that wax had been recently pressed against it. I began to make discreet inquiries and in the meantime my cabinets went to the local bank for safety. Helene countered by receiving a telegram from Angiers, calling her to the death-bed of her aged mother. The aged mother succumbed; duty compelled Helene to remain at the side of her stricken patriarchal father, and doubtless The Turrets was written off the syndicate's operations as a bad debt." "Very interesting," admitted Mr Carlyle; "but at the risk of seeming obtuse"--his manner had become delicately chastened--"I must say that I fail to trace the inevitable connexion between Nina Brun and this particular forgery--assuming that it is a forgery." "Set your mind at rest about that, Louis," replied Carrados. "It is a forgery, and it is a forgery that none but Pietro Stelli could have achieved. That is the essential connexion. Of course, there are accessories. A private detective coming urgently to see me with a notable tetradrachm in his pocket, which he announces to be the clue to a remarkable fraud--well, really, Louis, one scarcely needs to be blind to see through that." "And Lord Seastoke? I suppose you happened to discover that Nina Brun had gone there?" "No, I cannot claim to have discovered that, or I should certainly have warned him at once when I found out--only recently--about the gang. As a matter of fact, the last information I had of Lord Seastoke was a line in yesterday's _Morning Post_ to the effect that he was still at Cairo. But many of these pieces----" He brushed his finger almost lovingly across the vivid chariot race that embellished the reverse of the coin, and broke off to remark: "You really ought to take up the subject, Louis. You have no idea how useful it might prove to you some day." "I really think I must," replied Carlyle grimly. "Two hundred and fifty pounds the original of this cost, I believe." "Cheap, too; it would make five hundred pounds in New York to-day. As I was saying, many are literally unique. This gem by Kimon is--here is his signature, you see; Peter is particularly good at lettering--and as I handled the genuine tetradrachm about two years ago, when Lord Seastoke exhibited it at a meeting of our society in Albemarle Street, there is nothing at all wonderful in my being able to fix the locale of your mystery. Indeed, I feel that I ought to apologize for it all being so simple." "I think," remarked Mr Carlyle, critically examining the loose threads on his left boot, "that the apology on that head would be more appropriate from me." THE KNIGHT'S CROSS SIGNAL PROBLEM "Louis," exclaimed Mr Carrados, with the air of genial gaiety that Carlyle had found so incongruous to his conception of a blind man, "you have a mystery somewhere about you! I know it by your step." Nearly a month had passed since the incident of the false Dionysius had led to the two men meeting. It was now December. Whatever Mr Carlyle's step might indicate to the inner eye it betokened to the casual observer the manner of a crisp, alert, self-possessed man of business. Carlyle, in truth, betrayed nothing of the pessimism and despondency that had marked him on the earlier occasion. "You have only yourself to thank that it is a very poor one," he retorted. "If you hadn't held me to a hasty promise----" "To give me an option on the next case that baffled you, no matter what it was----" "Just so. The consequence is that you get a very unsatisfactory affair that has no special interest to an amateur and is only baffling because it is--well----" "Well, baffling?" "Exactly, Max. Your would-be jest has discovered the proverbial truth. I need hardly tell you that it is only the insoluble that is finally baffling and this is very probably insoluble. You remember the awful smash on the Central and Suburban at Knight's Cross Station a few weeks ago?" "Yes," replied Carrados, with interest. "I read the whole ghastly details at the time." "You read?" exclaimed his friend suspiciously. "I still use the familiar phrases," explained Carrados, with a smile. "As a matter of fact, my secretary reads to me. I mark what I want to hear and when he comes at ten o'clock we clear off the morning papers in no time." "And how do you know what to mark?" demanded Mr Carlyle cunningly. Carrados's right hand, lying idly on the table, moved to a newspaper near. He ran his finger along a column heading, his eyes still turned towards his visitor. "'The Money Market. Continued from page 2. British Railways,'" he announced. "Extraordinary," murmured Carlyle. "Not very," said Carrados. "If someone dipped a stick in treacle and wrote 'Rats' across a marble slab you would probably be able to distinguish what was there, blindfold." "Probably," admitted Mr Carlyle. "At all events we will not test the experiment." "The difference to you of treacle on a marble background is scarcely greater than that of printers' ink on newspaper to me. But anything smaller than pica I do not read with comfort, and below long primer I cannot read at all. Hence the secretary. Now the accident, Louis." "The accident: well, you remember all about that. An ordinary Central and Suburban passenger train, non-stop at Knight's Cross, ran past the signal and crashed into a crowded electric train that was just beginning to move out. It was like sending a garden roller down a row of handlights. Two carriages of the electric train were flattened out of existence; the next two were broken up. For the first time on an English railway there was a good stand-up smash between a heavy steam-engine and a train of light cars, and it was 'bad for the coo.'" "Twenty-seven killed, forty something injured, eight died since," commented Carrados. "That was bad for the Co.," said Carlyle. "Well, the main fact was plain enough. The heavy train was in the wrong. But was the engine-driver responsible? He claimed, and he claimed vehemently from the first and he never varied one iota, that he had a 'clear' signal--that is to say, the green light, it being dark. The signalman concerned was equally dogged that he never pulled off the signal--that it was at 'danger' when the accident happened and that it had been for five minutes before. Obviously, they could not both be right." "Why, Louis?" asked Mr Carrados smoothly. "The signal must either have been up or down--red or green." "Did you ever notice the signals on the Great Northern Railway, Louis?" "Not particularly. Why?" "One winterly day, about the year when you and I were concerned in being born, the engine-driver of a Scotch express received the 'clear' from a signal near a little Huntingdon station called Abbots Ripton. He went on and crashed into a goods train and into the thick of the smash a down express mowed its way. Thirteen killed and the usual tale of injured. He was positive that the signal gave him a 'clear'; the signalman was equally confident that he had never pulled it off the 'danger.' Both were right, and yet the signal was in working order. As I said, it was a winterly day; it had been snowing hard and the snow froze and accumulated on the upper edge of the signal arm until its weight bore it down. That is a fact that no fiction writer dare have invented, but to this day every signal on the Great Northern pivots from the centre of the arm instead of from the end, in memory of that snowstorm." "That came out at the inquest, I presume?" said Mr Carlyle. "We have had the Board of Trade inquiry and the inquest here and no explanation is forthcoming. Everything was in perfect order. It rests between the word of the signalman and the word of the engine-driver--not a jot of direct evidence either way. Which is right?" "That is what you are going to find out, Louis?" suggested Carrados. "It is what I am being paid for finding out," admitted Mr Carlyle frankly. "But so far we are just where the inquest left it, and, between ourselves, I candidly can't see an inch in front of my face in the matter." "Nor can I," said the blind man, with a rather wry smile. "Never mind. The engine-driver is your client, of course?" "Yes," admitted Carlyle. "But how the deuce did you know?" "Let us say that your sympathies are enlisted on his behalf. The jury were inclined to exonerate the signalman, weren't they? What has the company done with your man?" "Both are suspended. Hutchins, the driver, hears that he may probably be given charge of a lavatory at one of the stations. He is a decent, bluff, short-spoken old chap, with his heart in his work. Just now you'll find him at his worst--bitter and suspicious. The thought of swabbing down a lavatory and taking pennies all day is poisoning him." "Naturally. Well, there we have honest Hutchins: taciturn, a little touchy perhaps, grown grey in the service of the company, and manifesting quite a bulldog-like devotion to his favourite 538." "Why, that actually was the number of his engine--how do you know it?" demanded Carlyle sharply. "It was mentioned two or three times at the inquest, Louis," replied Carrados mildly. "And you remembered--with no reason to?" "You can generally trust a blind man's memory, especially if he has taken the trouble to develop it." "Then you will remember that Hutchins did not make a very good impression at the time. He was surly and irritable under the ordeal. I want you to see the case from all sides." "He called the signalman--Mead--a 'lying young dog,' across the room, I believe. Now, Mead, what is he like? You have seen him, of course?" "Yes. He does not impress me favourably. He is glib, ingratiating, and distinctly 'greasy.' He has a ready answer for everything almost before the question is out of your mouth. He has thought of everything." "And now you are going to tell me something, Louis," said Carrados encouragingly. Mr Carlyle laughed a little to cover an involuntary movement of surprise. "There is a suggestive line that was not touched at the inquiries," he admitted. "Hutchins has been a saving man all his life, and he has received good wages. Among his class he is regarded as wealthy. I daresay that he has five hundred pounds in the bank. He is a widower with one daughter, a very nice-mannered girl of about twenty. Mead is a young man, and he and the girl are sweethearts--have been informally engaged for some time. But old Hutchins would not hear of it; he seems to have taken a dislike to the signalman from the first and latterly he had forbidden him to come to his house or his daughter to speak to him." "Excellent, Louis," cried Carrados in great delight. "We shall clear your man in a blaze of red and green lights yet and hang the glib, 'greasy' signalman from his own signal-post." "It is a significant fact, seriously?" "It is absolutely convincing." "It may have been a slip, a mental lapse on Mead's part which he discovered the moment it was too late, and then, being too cowardly to admit his fault, and having so much at stake, he took care to make detection impossible. It may have been that, but my idea is rather that probably it was neither quite pure accident nor pure design. I can imagine Mead meanly pluming himself over the fact that the life of this man who stands in his way, and whom he must cordially dislike, lies in his power. I can imagine the idea becoming an obsession as he dwells on it. A dozen times with his hand on the lever he lets his mind explore the possibilities of a moment's defection. Then one day he pulls the signal off in sheer bravado--and hastily puts it at danger again. He may have done it once or he may have done it oftener before he was caught in a fatal moment of irresolution. The chances are about even that the engine-driver would be killed. In any case he would be disgraced, for it is easier on the face of it to believe that a man might run past a danger signal in absentmindedness, without noticing it, than that a man should pull off a signal and replace it without being conscious of his actions." "The fireman was killed. Does your theory involve the certainty of the fireman being killed, Louis?" "No," said Carlyle. "The fireman is a difficulty, but looking at it from Mead's point of view--whether he has been guilty of an error or a crime--it resolves itself into this: First, the fireman may be killed. Second, he may not notice the signal at all. Third, in any case he will loyally corroborate his driver and the good old jury will discount that." Carrados smoked thoughtfully, his open, sightless eyes merely appearing to be set in a tranquil gaze across the room. "It would not be an improbable explanation," he said presently. "Ninety-nine men out of a hundred would say: 'People do not do these things.' But you and I, who have in our different ways studied criminology, know that they sometimes do, or else there would be no curious crimes. What have you done on that line?" To anyone who could see, Mr Carlyle's expression conveyed an answer. "You are behind the scenes, Max. What was there for me to do? Still I must do something for my money. Well, I have had a very close inquiry made confidentially among the men. There might be a whisper of one of them knowing more than had come out--a man restrained by friendship, or enmity, or even grade jealousy. Nothing came of that. Then there was the remote chance that some private person had noticed the signal without attaching any importance to it then, one who would be able to identify it still by something associated with the time. I went over the line myself. Opposite the signal the line on one side is shut in by a high blank wall; on the other side are houses, but coming below the butt-end of a scullery the signal does not happen to be visible from any road or from any window." "My poor Louis!" said Carrados, in friendly ridicule. "You were at the end of your tether?" "I was," admitted Carlyle. "And now that you know the sort of job it is I don't suppose that you are keen on wasting your time over it." "That would hardly be fair, would it?" said Carrados reasonably. "No, Louis, I will take over your honest old driver and your greasy young signalman and your fatal signal that cannot be seen from anywhere." "But it is an important point for you to remember, Max, that although the signal cannot be seen from the box, if the mechanism had gone wrong, or anyone tampered with the arm, the automatic indicator would at once have told Mead that the green light was showing. Oh, I have gone very thoroughly into the technical points, I assure you." "I must do so too," commented Mr Carrados gravely. "For that matter, if there is anything you want to know, I dare say that I can tell you," suggested his visitor. "It might save your time." "True," acquiesced Carrados. "I should like to know whether anyone belonging to the houses that bound the line there came of age or got married on the twenty-sixth of November." Mr Carlyle looked across curiously at his host. "I really do not know, Max," he replied, in his crisp, precise way. "What on earth has that got to do with it, may I inquire?" "The only explanation of the Pont St Lin swing-bridge disaster of '75 was the reflection of a green bengal light on a cottage window." Mr Carlyle smiled his indulgence privately. "My dear chap, you mustn't let your retentive memory of obscure happenings run away with you," he remarked wisely. "In nine cases out of ten the obvious explanation is the true one. The difficulty, as here, lies in proving it. Now, you would like to see these men?" "I expect so; in any case, I will see Hutchins first." "Both live in Holloway. Shall I ask Hutchins to come here to see you--say to-morrow? He is doing nothing." "No," replied Carrados. "To-morrow I must call on my brokers and my time may be filled up." "Quite right; you mustn't neglect your own affairs for this--experiment," assented Carlyle. "Besides, I should prefer to drop in on Hutchins at his own home. Now, Louis, enough of the honest old man for one night. I have a lovely thing by Eumenes that I want to show you. To-day is--Tuesday. Come to dinner on Sunday and pour the vials of your ridicule on my want of success." "That's an amiable way of putting it," replied Carlyle. "All right, I will." Two hours later Carrados was again in his study, apparently, for a wonder, sitting idle. Sometimes he smiled to himself, and once or twice he laughed a little, but for the most part his pleasant, impassive face reflected no emotion and he sat with his useless eyes tranquilly fixed on an unseen distance. It was a fantastic caprice of the man to mock his sightlessness by a parade of light, and under the soft brilliance of a dozen electric brackets the room was as bright as day. At length he stood up and rang the bell. "I suppose Mr Greatorex isn't still here by any chance, Parkinson?" he asked, referring to his secretary. "I think not, sir, but I will ascertain," replied the man. "Never mind. Go to his room and bring me the last two files of _The Times_. Now"--when he returned--"turn to the earliest you have there. The date?" "November the second." "That will do. Find the Money Market; it will be in the Supplement. Now look down the columns until you come to British Railways." "I have it, sir." "Central and Suburban. Read the closing price and the change." "Central and Suburban Ordinary, 66-1/2 - 67-1/2, fall 1/8. Preferred Ordinary, 81 - 81-1/2, no change. Deferred Ordinary, 27-1/2 - 27-3/4, fall 1/4. That is all, sir." "Now take a paper about a week on. Read the Deferred only." "27 - 27-1/4, no change." "Another week." "29-1/2 - 30, rise 5/8." "Another." "31-1/2 - 32-1/2, rise 1." "Very good. Now on Tuesday the twenty-seventh November." "31-7/8 - 32-3/4, rise 1/2." "Yes. The next day." "24-1/2 - 23-1/2, fall 9." "Quite so, Parkinson. There had been an accident, you see." "Yes, sir. Very unpleasant accident. Jane knows a person whose sister's young man has a cousin who had his arm torn off in it--torn off at the socket, she says, sir. It seems to bring it home to one, sir." "That is all. Stay--in the paper you have, look down the first money column and see if there is any reference to the Central and Suburban." "Yes, sir. 'City and Suburbans, which after their late depression on the projected extension of the motor bus service, had been steadily creeping up on the abandonment of the scheme, and as a result of their own excellent traffic returns, suffered a heavy slump through the lamentable accident of Thursday night. The Deferred in particular at one time fell eleven points as it was felt that the possible dividend, with which rumour has of late been busy, was now out of the question.'" "Yes; that is all. Now you can take the papers back. And let it be a warning to you, Parkinson, not to invest your savings in speculative railway deferreds." "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir, I will endeavour to remember." He lingered for a moment as he shook the file of papers level. "I may say, sir, that I have my eye on a small block of cottage property at Acton. But even cottage property scarcely seems safe from legislative depredation now, sir." The next day Mr Carrados called on his brokers in the city. It is to be presumed that he got through his private business quicker than he expected, for after leaving Austin Friars he continued his journey to Holloway, where he found Hutchins at home and sitting morosely before his kitchen fire. Rightly assuming that his luxuriant car would involve him in a certain amount of public attention in Klondyke Street, the blind man dismissed it some distance from the house, and walked the rest of the way, guided by the almost imperceptible touch of Parkinson's arm. "Here is a gentleman to see you, father," explained Miss Hutchins, who had come to the door. She divined the relative positions of the two visitors at a glance. "Then why don't you take him into the parlour?" grumbled the ex-driver. His face was a testimonial of hard work and general sobriety but at the moment one might hazard from his voice and manner that he had been drinking earlier in the day. "I don't think that the gentleman would be impressed by the difference between our parlour and our kitchen," replied the girl quaintly, "and it is warmer here." "What's the matter with the parlour now?" demanded her father sourly. "It was good enough for your mother and me. It used to be good enough for you." "There is nothing the matter with it, nor with the kitchen either." She turned impassively to the two who had followed her along the narrow passage. "Will you go in, sir?" "I don't want to see no gentleman," cried Hutchins noisily. "Unless"--his manner suddenly changed to one of pitiable anxiety--"unless you're from the Company, sir, to--to----" "No; I have come on Mr Carlyle's behalf," replied Carrados, walking to a chair as though he moved by a kind of instinct. Hutchins laughed his wry contempt. "Mr Carlyle!" he reiterated; "Mr Carlyle! Fat lot of good he's been. Why don't he _do_ something for his money?" "He has," replied Carrados, with imperturbable good-humour; "he has sent me. Now, I want to ask you a few questions." "A few questions!" roared the irate man. "Why, blast it, I have done nothing else but answer questions for a month. I didn't pay Mr Carlyle to ask me questions; I can get enough of that for nixes. Why don't you go and ask Mr Herbert Ananias Mead your few questions--then you might find out something." There was a slight movement by the door and Carrados knew that the girl had quietly left the room. "You saw that, sir?" demanded the father, diverted to a new line of bitterness. "You saw that girl--my own daughter, that I've worked for all her life?" "No," replied Carrados. "The girl that's just gone out--she's my daughter," explained Hutchins. "I know, but I did not see her. I see nothing. I am blind." "Blind!" exclaimed the old fellow, sitting up in startled wonderment. "You mean it, sir? You walk all right and you look at me as if you saw me. You're kidding surely." "No," smiled Carrados. "It's quite right." "Then it's a funny business, sir--you what are blind expecting to find something that those with their eyes couldn't," ruminated Hutchins sagely. "There are things that you can't see with your eyes, Hutchins." "Perhaps you are right, sir. Well, what is it you want to know?" "Light a cigar first," said the blind man, holding out his case and waiting until the various sounds told him that his host was smoking contentedly. "The train you were driving at the time of the accident was the six-twenty-seven from Notcliff. It stopped everywhere until it reached Lambeth Bridge, the chief London station of your line. There it became something of an express, and leaving Lambeth Bridge at seven-eleven, should not stop again until it fetched Swanstead on Thames, eleven miles out, at seven-thirty-four. Then it stopped on and off from Swanstead to Ingerfield, the terminus of that branch, which it reached at eight-five." Hutchins nodded, and then, remembering, said: "That's right, sir." "That was your business all day--running between Notcliff and Ingerfield?" "Yes, sir. Three journeys up and three down mostly." "With the same stops on all the down journeys?" "No. The seven-eleven is the only one that does a run from the Bridge to Swanstead. You see, it is just on the close of the evening rush, as they call it. A good many late business gentlemen living at Swanstead use the seven-eleven regular. The other journeys we stop at every station to Lambeth Bridge, and then here and there beyond." "There are, of course, other trains doing exactly the same journey--a service, in fact?" "Yes, sir. About six." "And do any of those--say, during the rush--do any of those run non-stop from Lambeth to Swanstead?" Hutchins reflected a moment. All the choler and restlessness had melted out of the man's face. He was again the excellent artisan, slow but capable and self-reliant. "That I couldn't definitely say, sir. Very few short-distance trains pass the junction, but some of those may. A guide would show us in a minute but I haven't got one." "Never mind. You said at the inquest that it was no uncommon thing for you to be pulled up at the 'stop' signal east of Knight's Cross Station. How often would that happen--only with the seven-eleven, mind." "Perhaps three times a week; perhaps twice." "The accident was on a Thursday. Have you noticed that you were pulled up oftener on a Thursday than on any other day?" A smile crossed the driver's face at the question. "You don't happen to live at Swanstead yourself, sir?" he asked in reply. "No," admitted Carrados. "Why?" "Well, sir, we were _always_ pulled up on Thursday; practically always, you may say. It got to be quite a saying among those who used the train regular; they used to look out for it." Carrados's sightless eyes had the one quality of concealing emotion supremely. "Oh," he commented softly, "always; and it was quite a saying, was it? And _why_ was it always so on Thursday?" "It had to do with the early closing, I'm told. The suburban traffic was a bit different. By rights we ought to have been set back two minutes for that day, but I suppose it wasn't thought worth while to alter us in the time-table, so we most always had to wait outside Three Deep tunnel for a west-bound electric to make good." "You were prepared for it then?" "Yes, sir, I was," said Hutchins, reddening at some recollection, "and very down about it was one of the jury over that. But, mayhap once in three months, I did get through even on a Thursday, and it's not for me to question whether things are right or wrong just because they are not what I may expect. The signals are my orders, sir--stop! go on! and it's for me to obey, as you would a general on the field of battle. What would happen otherwise! It was nonsense what they said about going cautious; and the man who started it was a barber who didn't know the difference between a 'distance' and a 'stop' signal down to the minute they gave their verdict. My orders, sir, given me by that signal, was 'Go right ahead and keep to your running time!'" Carrados nodded a soothing assent. "That is all, I think," he remarked. "All!" exclaimed Hutchins in surprise. "Why, sir, you can't have got much idea of it yet." "Quite enough. And I know it isn't pleasant for you to be taken along the same ground over and over again." The man moved awkwardly in his chair and pulled nervously at his grizzled beard. "You mustn't take any notice of what I said just now, sir," he apologized. "You somehow make me feel that something may come of it; but I've been badgered about and accused and cross-examined from one to another of them these weeks till it's fairly made me bitter against everything. And now they talk of putting me in a lavatory--me that has been with the company for five and forty years and on the foot-plate thirty-two--a man suspected of running past a danger signal." "You have had a rough time, Hutchins; you will have to exercise your patience a little longer yet," said Carrados sympathetically. "You think something may come of it, sir? You think you will be able to clear me? Believe me, sir, if you could give me something to look forward to it might save me from----" He pulled himself up and shook his head sorrowfully. "I've been near it," he added simply. Carrados reflected and took his resolution. "To-day is Wednesday. I think you may hope to hear something from your general manager towards the middle of next week." "Good God, sir! You really mean that?" "In the interval show your good sense by behaving reasonably. Keep civilly to yourself and don't talk. Above all"--he nodded towards a quart jug that stood on the table between them, an incident that filled the simple-minded engineer with boundless wonder when he recalled it afterwards--"above all, leave that alone." Hutchins snatched up the vessel and brought it crashing down on the hearthstone, his face shining with a set resolution. "I've done with it, sir. It was the bitterness and despair that drove me to that. Now I can do without it." The door was hastily opened and Miss Hutchins looked anxiously from her father to the visitors and back again. "Oh, whatever is the matter?" she exclaimed. "I heard a great crash." "This gentleman is going to clear me, Meg, my dear," blurted out the old man irrepressibly. "And I've done with the drink for ever." "Hutchins! Hutchins!" said Carrados warningly. "My daughter, sir; you wouldn't have her not know?" pleaded Hutchins, rather crest-fallen. "It won't go any further." Carrados laughed quietly to himself as he felt Margaret Hutchins's startled and questioning eyes attempting to read his mind. He shook hands with the engine-driver without further comment, however, and walked out into the commonplace little street under Parkinson's unobtrusive guidance. "Very nice of Miss Hutchins to go into half-mourning, Parkinson," he remarked as they went along. "Thoughtful, and yet not ostentatious." "Yes, sir," agreed Parkinson, who had long ceased to wonder at his master's perceptions. "The Romans, Parkinson, had a saying to the effect that gold carries no smell. That is a pity sometimes. What jewellery did Miss Hutchins wear?" "Very little, sir. A plain gold brooch representing a merry-thought--the merry-thought of a sparrow, I should say, sir. The only other article was a smooth-backed gun-metal watch, suspended from a gun-metal bow." "Nothing showy or expensive, eh?" "Oh dear no, sir. Quite appropriate for a young person of her position." "Just what I should have expected." He slackened his pace. "We are passing a hoarding, are we not?" "Yes, sir." "We will stand here a moment. Read me the letterpress of the poster before us." "This 'Oxo' one, sir?" "Yes." "'Oxo,' sir." Carrados was convulsed with silent laughter. Parkinson had infinitely more dignity and conceded merely a tolerant recognition of the ludicrous. "That was a bad shot, Parkinson," remarked his master when he could speak. "We will try another." For three minutes, with scrupulous conscientiousness on the part of the reader and every appearance of keen interest on the part of the hearer, there were set forth the particulars of a sale by auction of superfluous timber and builders' material. "That will do," said Carrados, when the last detail had been reached. "We can be seen from the door of No. 107 still?" "Yes, sir." "No indication of anyone coming to us from there?" "No, sir." Carrados walked thoughtfully on again. In the Holloway Road they rejoined the waiting motor car. "Lambeth Bridge Station," was the order the driver received. From the station the car was sent on home and Parkinson was instructed to take two first-class singles for Richmond, which could be reached by changing at Stafford Road. The "evening rush" had not yet commenced and they had no difficulty in finding an empty carriage when the train came in. Parkinson was kept busy that journey describing what he saw at various points between Lambeth Bridge and Knight's Cross. For a quarter of a mile Carrados's demands on the eyes and the memory of his remarkable servant were wide and incessant. Then his questions ceased. They had passed the "stop" signal, east of Knight's Cross Station. The following afternoon they made the return journey as far as Knight's Cross. This time, however, the surroundings failed to interest Carrados. "We are going to look at some rooms," was the information he offered on the subject, and an imperturbable "Yes, sir" had been the extent of Parkinson's comment on the unusual proceeding. After leaving the station they turned sharply along a road that ran parallel with the line, a dull thoroughfare of substantial, elderly houses that were beginning to sink into decrepitude. Here and there a corner residence displayed the brass plate of a professional occupant, but for the most part they were given up to the various branches of second-rate apartment letting. "The third house after the one with the flagstaff," said Carrados. Parkinson rang the bell, which was answered by a young servant, who took an early opportunity of assuring them that she was not tidy as it was rather early in the afternoon. She informed Carrados, in reply to his inquiry, that Miss Chubb was at home, and showed them into a melancholy little sitting-room to await her appearance. "I shall be 'almost' blind here, Parkinson," remarked Carrados, walking about the room. "It saves explanation." "Very good, sir," replied Parkinson. Five minutes later, an interval suggesting that Miss Chubb also found it rather early in the afternoon, Carrados was arranging to take rooms for his attendant and himself for the short time that he would be in London, seeing an oculist. "One bedroom, mine, must face north," he stipulated. "It has to do with the light." Miss Chubb replied that she quite understood. Some gentlemen, she added, had their requirements, others their fancies. She endeavoured to suit all. The bedroom she had in view from the first _did_ face north. She would not have known, only the last gentleman, curiously enough, had made the same request. "A sufferer like myself?" inquired Carrados affably. Miss Chubb did not think so. In his case she regarded it merely as a fancy. He had said that he could not sleep on any other side. She had had to turn out of her own room to accommodate him, but if one kept an apartment-house one had to be adaptable; and Mr Ghoosh was certainly very liberal in his ideas. "Ghoosh? An Indian gentleman, I presume?" hazarded Carrados. It appeared that Mr Ghoosh was an Indian. Miss Chubb confided that at first she had been rather perturbed at the idea of taking in "a black man," as she confessed to regarding him. She reiterated, however, that Mr Ghoosh proved to be "quite the gentleman." Five minutes of affability put Carrados in full possession of Mr Ghoosh's manner of life and movements--the dates of his arrival and departure, his solitariness and his daily habits. "This would be the best bedroom," said Miss Chubb. It was a fair-sized room on the first floor. The window looked out on to the roof of an outbuilding; beyond, the deep cutting of the railway line. Opposite stood the dead wall that Mr Carlyle had spoken of. Carrados "looked" round the room with the discriminating glance that sometimes proved so embarrassing to those who knew him. "I have to take a little daily exercise," he remarked, walking to the window and running his hand up the woodwork. "You will not mind my fixing a 'developer' here, Miss Chubb--a few small screws?" Miss Chubb thought not. Then she was sure not. Finally she ridiculed the idea of minding with scorn. "If there is width enough," mused Carrados, spanning the upright critically. "Do you happen to have a wooden foot-rule convenient?" "Well, to be sure!" exclaimed Miss Chubb, opening a rapid succession of drawers until she produced the required article. "When we did out this room after Mr Ghoosh, there was this very ruler among the things that he hadn't thought worth taking. This is what you require, sir?" "Yes," replied Carrados, accepting it, "I think this is exactly what I require." It was a common new white-wood rule, such as one might buy at any small stationer's for a penny. He carelessly took off the width of the upright, reading the figures with a touch; and then continued to run a finger-tip delicately up and down the edges of the instrument. "Four and seven-eighths," was his unspoken conclusion. "I hope it will do, sir." "Admirably," replied Carrados. "But I haven't reached the end of my requirements yet, Miss Chubb." "No, sir?" said the landlady, feeling that it would be a pleasure to oblige so agreeable a gentleman, "what else might there be?" "Although I can see very little I like to have a light, but not any kind of light. Gas I cannot do with. Do you think that you would be able to find me an oil lamp?" "Certainly, sir. I got out a very nice brass lamp that I have specially for Mr Ghoosh. He read a good deal of an evening and he preferred a lamp." "That is very convenient. I suppose it is large enough to burn for a whole evening?" "Yes, indeed. And very particular he was always to have it filled every day." "A lamp without oil is not very useful," smiled Carrados, following her towards another room, and absentmindedly slipping the foot-rule into his pocket. Whatever Parkinson thought of the arrangement of going into second-rate apartments in an obscure street it is to be inferred that his devotion to his master was sufficient to overcome his private emotions as a self-respecting "man." At all events, as they were approaching the station he asked, and without a trace of feeling, whether there were any orders for him with reference to the proposed migration. "None, Parkinson," replied his master. "We must be satisfied with our present quarters." "I beg your pardon, sir," said Parkinson, with some constraint. "I understood that you had taken the rooms for a week certain." "I am afraid that Miss Chubb will be under the same impression. Unforeseen circumstances will prevent our going, however. Mr Greatorex must write to-morrow, enclosing a cheque, with my regrets, and adding a penny for this ruler which I seem to have brought away with me. It, at least, is something for the money." Parkinson may be excused for not attempting to understand the course of events. "Here is your train coming in, sir," he merely said. "We will let it go and wait for another. Is there a signal at either end of the platform?" "Yes, sir; at the further end." "Let us walk towards it. Are there any of the porters or officials about here?" "No, sir; none." "Take this ruler. I want you to go up the steps--there are steps up the signal, by the way?" "Yes, sir." "I want you to measure the glass of the lamp. Do not go up any higher than is necessary, but if you have to stretch be careful not to mark on the measurement with your nail, although the impulse is a natural one. That has been done already." Parkinson looked apprehensively around and about. Fortunately the part was a dark and unfrequented spot and everyone else was moving towards the exit at the other end of the platform. Fortunately, also, the signal was not a high one. "As near as I can judge on the rounded surface, the glass is four and seven-eighths across," reported Parkinson. "Thank you," replied Carrados, returning the measure to his pocket, "four and seven-eighths is quite near enough. Now we will take the next train back." Sunday evening came, and with it Mr Carlyle to The Turrets at the appointed hour. He brought to the situation a mind poised for any eventuality and a trenchant eye. As the time went on and the impenetrable Carrados made no allusion to the case, Carlyle's manner inclined to a waggish commiseration of his host's position. Actually, he said little, but the crisp precision of his voice when the path lay open to a remark of any significance left little to be said. It was not until they had finished dinner and returned to the library that Carrados gave the slightest hint of anything unusual being in the air. His first indication of coming events was to remove the key from the outside to the inside of the door. "What are you doing, Max?" demanded Mr Carlyle, his curiosity overcoming the indirect attitude. "You have been very entertaining, Louis," replied his friend, "but Parkinson should be back very soon now and it is as well to be prepared. Do you happen to carry a revolver?" "Not when I come to dine with you, Max," replied Carlyle, with all the aplomb he could muster. "Is it usual?" Carrados smiled affectionately at his guest's agile recovery and touched the secret spring of a drawer in an antique bureau by his side. The little hidden receptacle shot smoothly out, disclosing a pair of dull-blued pistols. "To-night, at all events, it might be prudent," he replied, handing one to Carlyle and putting the other into his own pocket. "Our man may be here at any minute, and we do not know in what temper he will come." "Our man!" exclaimed Carlyle, craning forward in excitement. "Max! you don't mean to say that you have got Mead to admit it?" "No one has admitted it," said Carrados. "And it is not Mead." "Not Mead.... Do you mean that Hutchins----?" "Neither Mead nor Hutchins. The man who tampered with the signal--for Hutchins was right and a green light _was_ exhibited--is a young Indian from Bengal. His name is Drishna and he lives at Swanstead." Mr Carlyle stared at his friend between sheer surprise and blank incredulity. "You really mean this, Carrados?" he said. "My fatal reputation for humour!" smiled Carrados. "If I am wrong, Louis, the next hour will expose it." "But why--why--why? The colossal villainy, the unparalleled audacity!" Mr Carlyle lost himself among incredulous superlatives and could only stare. "Chiefly to get himself out of a disastrous speculation," replied Carrados, answering the question. "If there was another motive--or at least an incentive--which I suspect, doubtless we shall hear of it." "All the same, Max, I don't think that you have treated me quite fairly," protested Carlyle, getting over his first surprise and passing to a sense of injury. "Here we are and I know nothing, absolutely nothing, of the whole affair." "We both have our ideas of pleasantry, Louis," replied Carrados genially. "But I dare say you are right and perhaps there is still time to atone." In the fewest possible words he outlined the course of his investigations. "And now you know all that is to be known until Drishna arrives." "But will he come?" questioned Carlyle doubtfully. "He may be suspicious." "Yes, he will be suspicious." "Then he will not come." "On the contrary, Louis, he will come because my letter will make him suspicious. He _is_ coming; otherwise Parkinson would have telephoned me at once and we should have had to take other measures." "What did you say, Max?" asked Carlyle curiously. "I wrote that I was anxious to discuss an Indo-Scythian inscription with him, and sent my car in the hope that he would be able to oblige me." "But is he interested in Indo-Scythian inscriptions?" "I haven't the faintest idea," admitted Carrados, and Mr Carlyle was throwing up his hands in despair when the sound of a motor car wheels softly kissing the gravel surface of the drive outside brought him to his feet. "By gad, you are right, Max!" he exclaimed, peeping through the curtains. "There is a man inside." "Mr Drishna," announced Parkinson, a minute later. The visitor came into the room with leisurely self-possession that might have been real or a desperate assumption. He was a slightly built young man of about twenty-five, with black hair and eyes, a small, carefully trained moustache, and a dark olive skin. His physiognomy was not displeasing, but his expression had a harsh and supercilious tinge. In attire he erred towards the immaculately spruce. "Mr Carrados?" he said inquiringly. Carrados, who had risen, bowed slightly without offering his hand. "This gentleman," he said, indicating his friend, "is Mr Carlyle, the celebrated private detective." The Indian shot a very sharp glance at the object of this description. Then he sat down. "You wrote me a letter, Mr Carrados," he remarked, in English that scarcely betrayed any foreign origin, "a rather curious letter, I may say. You asked me about an ancient inscription. I know nothing of antiquities; but I thought, as you had sent, that it would be more courteous if I came and explained this to you." "That was the object of my letter," replied Carrados. "You wished to see me?" said Drishna, unable to stand the ordeal of the silence that Carrados imposed after his remark. "When you left Miss Chubb's house you left a ruler behind." One lay on the desk by Carrados and he took it up as he spoke. "I don't understand what you are talking about," said Drishna guardedly. "You are making some mistake." "The ruler was marked at four and seven-eighths inches--the measure of the glass of the signal lamp outside." The unfortunate young man was unable to repress a start. His face lost its healthy tone. Then, with a sudden impulse, he made a step forward and snatched the object from Carrados's hand. "If it is mine I have a right to it," he exclaimed, snapping the ruler in two and throwing it on to the back of the blazing fire. "It is nothing." "Pardon me, I did not say that the one you have so impetuously disposed of was yours. As a matter of fact, it was mine. Yours is--elsewhere." "Wherever it is you have no right to it if it is mine," panted Drishna, with rising excitement. "You are a thief, Mr Carrados. I will not stay any longer here." He jumped up and turned towards the door. Carlyle made a step forward, but the precaution was unnecessary. "One moment, Mr Drishna," interposed Carrados, in his smoothest tones. "It is a pity, after you have come so far, to leave without hearing of my investigations in the neighbourhood of Shaftesbury Avenue." Drishna sat down again. "As you like," he muttered. "It does not interest me." "I wanted to obtain a lamp of a certain pattern," continued Carrados. "It seemed to me that the simplest explanation would be to say that I wanted it for a motor car. Naturally I went to Long Acre. At the first shop I said: 'Wasn't it here that a friend of mine, an Indian gentleman, recently had a lamp made with a green glass that was nearly five inches across?' No, it was not there but they could make me one. At the next shop the same; at the third, and fourth, and so on. Finally my persistence was rewarded. I found the place where the lamp had been made, and at the cost of ordering another I obtained all the details I wanted. It was news to them, the shopman informed me, that in some parts of India green was the danger colour and therefore tail lamps had to show a green light. The incident made some impression on him and he would be able to identify their customer--who paid in advance and gave no address--among a thousand of his countrymen. Do I succeed in interesting you, Mr Drishna?" "Do you?" replied Drishna, with a languid yawn. "Do I look interested?" "You must make allowance for my unfortunate blindness," apologized Carrados, with grim irony. "Blindness!" exclaimed Drishna, dropping his affectation of unconcern as though electrified by the word, "do you mean--really blind--that you do not see me?" "Alas, no," admitted Carrados. The Indian withdrew his right hand from his coat pocket and with a tragic gesture flung a heavy revolver down on the table between them. "I have had you covered all the time, Mr Carrados, and if I had wished to go and you or your friend had raised a hand to stop me, it would have been at the peril of your lives," he said, in a voice of melancholy triumph. "But what is the use of defying fate, and who successfully evades his destiny? A month ago I went to see one of our people who reads the future and sought to know the course of certain events. 'You need fear no human eye,' was the message given to me. Then she added: 'But when the sightless sees the unseen, make your peace with Yama.' And I thought she spoke of the Great Hereafter!" "This amounts to an admission of your guilt," exclaimed Mr Carlyle practically. "I bow to the decree of fate," replied Drishna. "And it is fitting to the universal irony of existence that a blind man should be the instrument. I don't imagine, Mr Carlyle," he added maliciously, "that you, with your eyes, would ever have brought that result about." "You are a very cold-blooded young scoundrel, sir!" retorted Mr Carlyle. "Good heavens! do you realize that you are responsible for the death of scores of innocent men and women?" "Do _you_ realise, Mr Carlyle, that you and your Government and your soldiers are responsible for the death of thousands of innocent men and women in my country every day? If England was occupied by the Germans who quartered an army and an administration with their wives and their families and all their expensive paraphernalia on the unfortunate country until the whole nation was reduced to the verge of famine, and the appointment of every new official meant the callous death sentence on a thousand men and women to pay his salary, then if you went to Berlin and wrecked a train you would be hailed a patriot. What Boadicea did and--and Samson, so have I. If they were heroes, so am I." "Well, upon my word!" cried the highly scandalized Carlyle, "what next! Boadicea was a--er--semi-legendary person, whom we may possibly admire at a distance. Personally, I do not profess to express an opinion. But Samson, I would remind you, is a Biblical character. Samson was mocked as an enemy. You, I do not doubt, have been entertained as a friend." "And haven't I been mocked and despised and sneered at every day of my life here by your supercilious, superior, empty-headed men?" flashed back Drishna, his eyes leaping into malignity and his voice trembling with sudden passion. "Oh! how I hated them as I passed them in the street and recognized by a thousand petty insults their lordly English contempt for me as an inferior being--a nigger. How I longed with Caligula that a nation had a single neck that I might destroy it at one blow. I loathe you in your complacent hypocrisy, Mr Carlyle, despise and utterly abominate you from an eminence of superiority that you can never even understand." "I think we are getting rather away from the point, Mr Drishna," interposed Carrados, with the impartiality of a judge. "Unless I am misinformed, you are not so ungallant as to include everyone you have met here in your execration?" "Ah, no," admitted Drishna, descending into a quite ingenuous frankness. "Much as I hate your men I love your women. How is it possible that a nation should be so divided--its men so dull-witted and offensive, its women so quick, sympathetic and capable of appreciating?" "But a little expensive, too, at times?" suggested Carrados. Drishna sighed heavily. "Yes; it is incredible. It is the generosity of their large nature. My allowance, though what most of you would call noble, has proved quite inadequate. I was compelled to borrow money and the interest became overwhelming. Bankruptcy was impracticable because I should have then been recalled by my people, and much as I detest England a certain reason made the thought of leaving it unbearable." "Connected with the Arcady Theatre?" "You know? Well, do not let us introduce the lady's name. In order to restore myself I speculated on the Stock Exchange. My credit was good through my father's position and the standing of the firm to which I am attached. I heard on reliable authority, and very early, that the Central and Suburban, and the Deferred especially, was safe to fall heavily, through a motor bus amalgamation that was then a secret. I opened a bear account and sold largely. The shares fell, but only fractionally, and I waited. Then, unfortunately, they began to go up. Adverse forces were at work and rumours were put about. I could not stand the settlement, and in order to carry over an account I was literally compelled to deal temporarily with some securities that were not technically my own property." "Embezzlement, sir," commented Mr Carlyle icily. "But what is embezzlement on the top of wholesale murder!" "That is what it is called. In my case, however, it was only to be temporary. Unfortunately, the rise continued. Then, at the height of my despair, I chanced to be returning to Swanstead rather earlier than usual one evening, and the train was stopped at a certain signal to let another pass. There was conversation in the carriage and I learned certain details. One said that there would be an accident some day, and so forth. In a flash--as by an inspiration--I saw how the circumstance might be turned to account. A bad accident and the shares would certainly fall and my position would be retrieved. I think Mr Carrados has somehow learned the rest." "Max," said Mr Carlyle, with emotion, "is there any reason why you should not send your man for a police officer and have this monster arrested on his own confession without further delay?" "Pray do so, Mr Carrados," acquiesced Drishna. "I shall certainly be hanged, but the speech I shall prepare will ring from one end of India to the other; my memory will be venerated as that of a martyr; and the emancipation of my motherland will be hastened by my sacrifice." "In other words," commented Carrados, "there will be disturbances at half-a-dozen disaffected places, a few unfortunate police will be clubbed to death, and possibly worse things may happen. That does not suit us, Mr Drishna." "And how do you propose to prevent it?" asked Drishna, with cool assurance. "It is very unpleasant being hanged on a dark winter morning; very cold, very friendless, very inhuman. The long trial, the solitude and the confinement, the thoughts of the long sleepless night before, the hangman and the pinioning and the noosing of the rope, are apt to prey on the imagination. Only a very stupid man can take hanging easily." "What do you want me to do instead, Mr Carrados?" asked Drishna shrewdly. Carrados's hand closed on the weapon that still lay on the table between them. Without a word he pushed it across. "I see," commented Drishna, with a short laugh and a gleaming eye. "Shoot myself and hush it up to suit your purpose. Withhold my message to save the exposures of a trial, and keep the flame from the torch of insurrectionary freedom." "Also," interposed Carrados mildly, "to save your worthy people a good deal of shame, and to save the lady who is nameless the unpleasant necessity of relinquishing the house and the income which you have just settled on her. She certainly would not then venerate your memory." "What is that?" "The transaction which you carried through was based on a felony and could not be upheld. The firm you dealt with will go to the courts, and the money, being directly traceable, will be held forfeit as no good consideration passed." "Max!" cried Mr Carlyle hotly, "you are not going to let this scoundrel cheat the gallows after all?" "The best use you can make of the gallows is to cheat it, Louis," replied Carrados. "Have you ever reflected what human beings will think of us a hundred years hence?" "Oh, of course I'm not really in favour of hanging," admitted Mr Carlyle. "Nobody really is. But we go on hanging. Mr Drishna is a dangerous animal who for the sake of pacific animals must cease to exist. Let his barbarous exploit pass into oblivion with him. The disadvantages of spreading it broadcast immeasurably outweigh the benefits." "I have considered," announced Drishna. "I will do as you wish." "Very well," said Carrados. "Here is some plain notepaper. You had better write a letter to someone saying that the financial difficulties in which you are involved make life unbearable." "But there are no financial difficulties--now." "That does not matter in the least. It will be put down to an hallucination and taken as showing the state of your mind." "But what guarantee have we that he will not escape?" whispered Mr Carlyle. "He cannot escape," replied Carrados tranquilly. "His identity is too clear." "I have no intention of trying to escape," put in Drishna, as he wrote. "You hardly imagine that I have not considered this eventuality, do you?" "All the same," murmured the ex-lawyer, "I should like to have a jury behind me. It is one thing to execute a man morally; it is another to do it almost literally." "Is that all right?" asked Drishna, passing across the letter he had written. Carrados smiled at this tribute to his perception. "Quite excellent," he replied courteously. "There is a train at nine-forty. Will that suit you?" Drishna nodded and stood up. Mr Carlyle had a very uneasy feeling that he ought to do something but could not suggest to himself what. The next moment he heard his friend heartily thanking the visitor for the assistance he had been in the matter of the Indo-Scythian inscription, as they walked across the hall together. Then a door closed. "I believe that there is something positively uncanny about Max at times," murmured the perturbed gentleman to himself. THE TRAGEDY AT BROOKBEND COTTAGE "Max," said Mr Carlyle, when Parkinson had closed the door behind him, "this is Lieutenant Hollyer, whom you consented to see." "To hear," corrected Carrados, smiling straight into the healthy and rather embarrassed face of the stranger before him. "Mr Hollyer knows of my disability?" "Mr Carlyle told me," said the young man, "but, as a matter of fact, I had heard of you before, Mr Carrados, from one of our men. It was in connexion with the foundering of the _Ivan Saratov_." Carrados wagged his head in good-humoured resignation. "And the owners were sworn to inviolable secrecy!" he exclaimed. "Well, it is inevitable, I suppose. Not another scuttling case, Mr Hollyer?" "No, mine is quite a private matter," replied the lieutenant. "My sister, Mrs Creake--but Mr Carlyle would tell you better than I can. He knows all about it." "No, no; Carlyle is a professional. Let me have it in the rough, Mr Hollyer. My ears are my eyes, you know." "Very well, sir. I can tell you what there is to tell, right enough, but I feel that when all's said and done it must sound very little to another, although it seems important enough to me." "We have occasionally found trifles of significance ourselves," said Carrados encouragingly. "Don't let that deter you." This was the essence of Lieutenant Hollyer's narrative: "I have a sister, Millicent, who is married to a man called Creake. She is about twenty-eight now and he is at least fifteen years older. Neither my mother (who has since died), nor I, cared very much about Creake. We had nothing particular against him, except, perhaps, the moderate disparity of age, but none of us appeared to have anything in common. He was a dark, taciturn man, and his moody silence froze up conversation. As a result, of course, we didn't see much of each other." "This, you must understand, was four or five years ago, Max," interposed Mr Carlyle officiously. Carrados maintained an uncompromising silence. Mr Carlyle blew his nose and contrived to impart a hurt significance into the operation. Then Lieutenant Hollyer continued: "Millicent married Creake after a very short engagement. It was a frightfully subdued wedding--more like a funeral to me. The man professed to have no relations and apparently he had scarcely any friends or business acquaintances. He was an agent for something or other and had an office off Holborn. I suppose he made a living out of it then, although we knew practically nothing of his private affairs, but I gather that it has been going down since, and I suspect that for the past few years they have been getting along almost entirely on Millicent's little income. You would like the particulars of that?" "Please," assented Carrados. "When our father died about seven years ago, he left three thousand pounds. It was invested in Canadian stock and brought in a little over a hundred a year. By his will my mother was to have the income of that for life and on her death it was to pass to Millicent, subject to the payment of a lump sum of five hundred pounds to me. But my father privately suggested to me that if I should have no particular use for the money at the time, he would propose my letting Millicent have the income of it until I did want it, as she would not be particularly well off. You see, Mr Carrados, a great deal more had been spent on my education and advancement than on her; I had my pay, and, of course, I could look out for myself better than a girl could." "Quite so," agreed Carrados. "Therefore I did nothing about that," continued the lieutenant. "Three years ago I was over again but I did not see much of them. They were living in lodgings. That was the only time since the marriage that I have seen them until last week. In the meanwhile our mother had died and Millicent had been receiving her income. She wrote me several letters at the time. Otherwise we did not correspond much, but about a year ago she sent me their new address--Brookbend Cottage, Mulling Common--a house that they had taken. When I got two months' leave I invited myself there as a matter of course, fully expecting to stay most of my time with them, but I made an excuse to get away after a week. The place was dismal and unendurable, the whole life and atmosphere indescribably depressing." He looked round with an instinct of caution, leaned forward earnestly, and dropped his voice. "Mr Carrados, it is my absolute conviction that Creake is only waiting for a favourable opportunity to murder Millicent." "Go on," said Carrados quietly. "A week of the depressing surroundings of Brookbend Cottage would not alone convince you of that, Mr Hollyer." "I am not so sure," declared Hollyer doubtfully. "There was a feeling of suspicion and--before me--polite hatred that would have gone a good way towards it. All the same there _was_ something more definite. Millicent told me this the day after I went there. There is no doubt that a few months ago Creake deliberately planned to poison her with some weed-killer. She told me the circumstances in a rather distressed moment, but afterwards she refused to speak of it again--even weakly denied it--and, as a matter of fact, it was with the greatest difficulty that I could get her at any time to talk about her husband or his affairs. The gist of it was that she had the strongest suspicion that Creake doctored a bottle of stout which he expected she would drink for her supper when she was alone. The weed-killer, properly labelled, but also in a beer bottle, was kept with other miscellaneous liquids in the same cupboard as the beer but on a high shelf. When he found that it had miscarried he poured away the mixture, washed out the bottle and put in the dregs from another. There is no doubt in my mind that if he had come back and found Millicent dead or dying he would have contrived it to appear that she had made a mistake in the dark and drunk some of the poison before she found out." "Yes," assented Carrados. "The open way; the safe way." "You must understand that they live in a very small style, Mr Carrados, and Millicent is almost entirely in the man's power. The only servant they have is a woman who comes in for a few hours every day. The house is lonely and secluded. Creake is sometimes away for days and nights at a time, and Millicent, either through pride or indifference, seems to have dropped off all her old friends and to have made no others. He might poison her, bury the body in the garden, and be a thousand miles away before anyone began even to inquire about her. What am I to do, Mr Carrados?" "He is less likely to try poison than some other means now," pondered Carrados. "That having failed, his wife will always be on her guard. He may know, or at least suspect, that others know. No.... The common-sense precaution would be for your sister to leave the man, Mr Hollyer. She will not?" "No," admitted Hollyer, "she will not. I at once urged that." The young man struggled with some hesitation for a moment and then blurted out: "The fact is, Mr Carrados, I don't understand Millicent. She is not the girl she was. She hates Creake and treats him with a silent contempt that eats into their lives like acid, and yet she is so jealous of him that she will let nothing short of death part them. It is a horrible life they lead. I stood it for a week and I must say, much as I dislike my brother-in-law, that he has something to put up with. If only he got into a passion like a man and killed her it wouldn't be altogether incomprehensible." "That does not concern us," said Carrados. "In a game of this kind one has to take sides and we have taken ours. It remains for us to see that our side wins. You mentioned jealousy, Mr Hollyer. Have you any idea whether Mrs Creake has real ground for it?" "I should have told you that," replied Lieutenant Hollyer. "I happened to strike up with a newspaper man whose office is in the same block as Creake's. When I mentioned the name he grinned. 'Creake,' he said, 'oh, he's the man with the romantic typist, isn't he?' 'Well, he's my brother-in-law,' I replied. 'What about the typist?' Then the chap shut up like a knife. 'No, no,' he said, 'I didn't know he was married. I don't want to get mixed up in anything of that sort. I only said that he had a typist. Well, what of that? So have we; so has everyone.' There was nothing more to be got out of him, but the remark and the grin meant--well, about as usual, Mr Carrados." Carrados turned to his friend. "I suppose you know all about the typist by now, Louis?" "We have had her under efficient observation, Max," replied Mr Carlyle, with severe dignity. "Is she unmarried?" "Yes; so far as ordinary repute goes, she is." "That is all that is essential for the moment. Mr Hollyer opens up three excellent reasons why this man might wish to dispose of his wife. If we accept the suggestion of poisoning--though we have only a jealous woman's suspicion for it--we add to the wish the determination. Well, we will go forward on that. Have you got a photograph of Mr Creake?" The lieutenant took out his pocket-book. "Mr Carlyle asked me for one. Here is the best I could get." Carrados rang the bell. "This, Parkinson," he said, when the man appeared, "is a photograph of a Mr----What first name, by the way?" "Austin," put in Hollyer, who was following everything with a boyish mixture of excitement and subdued importance. "--of a Mr Austin Creake. I may require you to recognize him." Parkinson glanced at the print and returned it to his master's hand. "May I inquire if it is a recent photograph of the gentleman, sir?" he asked. "About six years ago," said the lieutenant, taking in this new actor in the drama with frank curiosity. "But he is very little changed." "Thank you, sir. I will endeavour to remember Mr Creake, sir." Lieutenant Hollyer stood up as Parkinson left the room. The interview seemed to be at an end. "Oh, there's one other matter," he remarked. "I am afraid that I did rather an unfortunate thing while I was at Brookbend. It seemed to me that as all Millicent's money would probably pass into Creake's hands sooner or later I might as well have my five hundred pounds, if only to help her with afterwards. So I broached the subject and said that I should like to have it now as I had an opportunity for investing." "And you think?" "It may possibly influence Creake to act sooner than he otherwise might have done. He may have got possession of the principal even and find it very awkward to replace it." "So much the better. If your sister is going to be murdered it may as well be done next week as next year so far as I am concerned. Excuse my brutality, Mr Hollyer, but this is simply a case to me and I regard it strategically. Now Mr Carlyle's organization can look after Mrs Creake for a few weeks but it cannot look after her for ever. By increasing the immediate risk we diminish the permanent risk." "I see," agreed Hollyer. "I'm awfully uneasy but I'm entirely in your hands." "Then we will give Mr Creake every inducement and every opportunity to get to work. Where are you staying now?" "Just now with some friends at St Albans." "That is too far." The inscrutable eyes retained their tranquil depth but a new quality of quickening interest in the voice made Mr Carlyle forget the weight and burden of his ruffled dignity. "Give me a few minutes, please. The cigarettes are behind you, Mr Hollyer." The blind man walked to the window and seemed to look out over the cypress-shaded lawn. The lieutenant lit a cigarette and Mr Carlyle picked up _Punch_. Then Carrados turned round again. "You are prepared to put your own arrangements aside?" he demanded of his visitor. "Certainly." "Very well. I want you to go down now--straight from here--to Brookbend Cottage. Tell your sister that your leave is unexpectedly cut short and that you sail to-morrow." "The _Martian_?" "No, no; the _Martian_ doesn't sail. Look up the movements on your way there and pick out a boat that does. Say you are transferred. Add that you expect to be away only two or three months and that you really want the five hundred pounds by the time of your return. Don't stay in the house long, please." "I understand, sir." "St Albans is too far. Make your excuse and get away from there to-day. Put up somewhere in town, where you will be in reach of the telephone. Let Mr Carlyle and myself know where you are. Keep out of Creake's way. I don't want actually to tie you down to the house, but we may require your services. We will let you know at the first sign of anything doing and if there is nothing to be done we must release you." "I don't mind that. Is there nothing more that I can do now?" "Nothing. In going to Mr Carlyle you have done the best thing possible; you have put your sister into the care of the shrewdest man in London." Whereat the object of this quite unexpected eulogy found himself becoming covered with modest confusion. "Well, Max?" remarked Mr Carlyle tentatively when they were alone. "Well, Louis?" "Of course it wasn't worth while rubbing it in before young Hollyer, but, as a matter of fact, every single man carries the life of any other man--only one, mind you--in his hands, do what you will." "Provided he doesn't bungle," acquiesced Carrados. "Quite so." "And also that he is absolutely reckless of the consequences." "Of course." "Two rather large provisos. Creake is obviously susceptible to both. Have you seen him?" "No. As I told you, I put a man on to report his habits in town. Then, two days ago, as the case seemed to promise some interest--for he certainly is deeply involved with the typist, Max, and the thing might take a sensational turn any time--I went down to Mulling Common myself. Although the house is lonely it is on the electric tram route. You know the sort of market garden rurality that about a dozen miles out of London offers--alternate bricks and cabbages. It was easy enough to get to know about Creake locally. He mixes with no one there, goes into town at irregular times but generally every day, and is reputed to be devilish hard to get money out of. Finally I made the acquaintance of an old fellow who used to do a day's gardening at Brookbend occasionally. He has a cottage and a garden of his own with a greenhouse, and the business cost me the price of a pound of tomatoes." "Was it--a profitable investment?" "As tomatoes, yes; as information, no. The old fellow had the fatal disadvantage from our point of view of labouring under a grievance. A few weeks ago Creake told him that he would not require him again as he was going to do his own gardening in future." "That is something, Louis." "If only Creake was going to poison his wife with hyoscyamine and bury her, instead of blowing her up with a dynamite cartridge and claiming that it came in among the coal." "True, true. Still----" "However, the chatty old soul had a simple explanation for everything that Creake did. Creake was mad. He had even seen him flying a kite in his garden where it was bound to get wrecked among the trees. 'A lad of ten would have known better,' he declared. And certainly the kite did get wrecked, for I saw it hanging over the road myself. But that a sane man should spend his time 'playing with a toy' was beyond him." "A good many men have been flying kites of various kinds lately," said Carrados. "Is he interested in aviation?" "I dare say. He appears to have some knowledge of scientific subjects. Now what do you want me to do, Max?" "Will you do it?" "Implicitly--subject to the usual reservations." "Keep your man on Creake in town and let me have his reports after you have seen them. Lunch with me here now. 'Phone up to your office that you are detained on unpleasant business and then give the deserving Parkinson an afternoon off by looking after me while we take a motor run round Mulling Common. If we have time we might go on to Brighton, feed at the 'Ship,' and come back in the cool." "Amiable and thrice lucky mortal," sighed Mr Carlyle, his glance wandering round the room. But, as it happened, Brighton did not figure in that day's itinerary. It had been Carrados's intention merely to pass Brookbend Cottage on this occasion, relying on his highly developed faculties, aided by Mr Carlyle's description, to inform him of the surroundings. A hundred yards before they reached the house he had given an order to his chauffeur to drop into the lowest speed and they were leisurely drawing past when a discovery by Mr Carlyle modified their plans. "By Jupiter!" that gentleman suddenly exclaimed, "there's a board up, Max. The place is to be let." Carrados picked up the tube again. A couple of sentences passed and the car stopped by the roadside, a score of paces past the limit of the garden. Mr Carlyle took out his notebook and wrote down the address of a firm of house agents. "You might raise the bonnet and have a look at the engines, Harris," said Carrados. "We want to be occupied here for a few minutes." "This is sudden; Hollyer knew nothing of their leaving," remarked Mr Carlyle. "Probably not for three months yet. All the same, Louis, we will go on to the agents and get a card to view, whether we use it to-day or not." A thick hedge, in its summer dress effectively screening the house beyond from public view, lay between the garden and the road. Above the hedge showed an occasional shrub; at the corner nearest to the car a chestnut flourished. The wooden gate, once white; which they had passed, was grimed and rickety. The road itself was still the unpretentious country lane that the advent of the electric car had found it. When Carrados had taken in these details there seemed little else to notice. He was on the point of giving Harris the order to go on when his ear caught a trivial sound. "Someone is coming out of the house, Louis," he warned his friend. "It may be Hollyer, but he ought to have gone by this time." "I don't hear anyone," replied the other, but as he spoke a door banged noisily and Mr Carlyle slipped into another seat and ensconced himself behind a copy of _The Globe_. "Creake himself," he whispered across the car, as a man appeared at the gate. "Hollyer was right; he is hardly changed. Waiting for a car, I suppose." But a car very soon swung past them from the direction in which Mr Creake was looking and it did not interest him. For a minute or two longer he continued to look expectantly along the road. Then he walked slowly up the drive back to the house. "We will give him five or ten minutes," decided Carrados. "Harris is behaving very naturally." Before even the shorter period had run out they were repaid. A telegraph-boy cycled leisurely along the road, and, leaving his machine at the gate, went up to the cottage. Evidently there was no reply, for in less than a minute he was trundling past them back again. Round the bend an approaching tram clanged its bell noisily, and, quickened by the warning sound, Mr Creake again appeared, this time with a small portmanteau in his hand. With a backward glance he hurried on towards the next stopping-place, and, boarding the car as it slackened down, he was carried out of their knowledge. "Very convenient of Mr Creake," remarked Carrados, with quiet satisfaction. "We will now get the order and go over the house in his absence. It might be useful to have a look at the wire as well." "It might, Max," acquiesced Mr Carlyle a little dryly. "But if it is, as it probably is, in Creake's pocket, how do you propose to get it?" "By going to the post office, Louis." "Quite so. Have you ever tried to see a copy of a telegram addressed to someone else?" "I don't think I have ever had occasion yet," admitted Carrados. "Have you?" "In one or two cases I have perhaps been an accessory to the act. It is generally a matter either of extreme delicacy or considerable expenditure." "Then for Hollyer's sake we will hope for the former here." And Mr Carlyle smiled darkly and hinted that he was content to wait for a friendly revenge. A little later, having left the car at the beginning of the straggling High Street, the two men called at the village post office. They had already visited the house agent and obtained an order to view Brookbend Cottage, declining, with some difficulty, the clerk's persistent offer to accompany them. The reason was soon forthcoming. "As a matter of fact," explained the young man, "the present tenant is under _our_ notice to leave." "Unsatisfactory, eh?" said Carrados encouragingly. "He's a corker," admitted the clerk, responding to the friendly tone. "Fifteen months and not a doit of rent have we had. That's why I should have liked----" "We will make every allowance," replied Carrados. The post office occupied one side of a stationer's shop. It was not without some inward trepidation that Mr Carlyle found himself committed to the adventure. Carrados, on the other hand, was the personification of bland unconcern. "You have just sent a telegram to Brookbend Cottage," he said to the young lady behind the brasswork lattice. "We think it may have come inaccurately and should like a repeat." He took out his purse. "What is the fee?" The request was evidently not a common one. "Oh," said the girl uncertainly, "wait a minute, please." She turned to a pile of telegram duplicates behind the desk and ran a doubtful finger along the upper sheets. "I think this is all right. You want it repeated?" "Please." Just a tinge of questioning surprise gave point to the courteous tone. "It will be fourpence. If there is an error the amount will be refunded." Carrados put down a coin and received his change. "Will it take long?" he inquired carelessly, as he pulled on his glove. "You will most likely get it within a quarter of an hour," she replied. "Now you've done it," commented Mr Carlyle, as they walked back to their car. "How do you propose to get that telegram, Max?" "Ask for it," was the laconic explanation. And, stripping the artifice of any elaboration, he simply asked for it and got it. The car, posted at a convenient bend in the road, gave him a warning note as the telegraph-boy approached. Then Carrados took up a convincing attitude with his hand on the gate while Mr Carlyle lent himself to the semblance of a departing friend. That was the inevitable impression when the boy rode up. "Creake, Brookbend Cottage?" inquired Carrados, holding out his hand, and without a second thought the boy gave him the envelope and rode away on the assurance that there would be no reply. "Some day, my friend," remarked Mr Carlyle, looking nervously towards the unseen house, "your ingenuity will get you into a tight corner." "Then my ingenuity must get me out again," was the retort. "Let us have our 'view' now. The telegram can wait." An untidy workwoman took their order and left them standing at the door. Presently a lady whom they both knew to be Mrs Creake appeared. "You wish to see over the house?" she said, in a voice that was utterly devoid of any interest. Then, without waiting for a reply, she turned to the nearest door and threw it open. "This is the drawing-room," she said, standing aside. They walked into a sparsely furnished, damp-smelling room and made a pretence of looking round, while Mrs Creake remained silent and aloof. "The dining-room," she continued, crossing the narrow hall and opening another door. Mr Carlyle ventured a genial commonplace in the hope of inducing conversation. The result was not encouraging. Doubtless they would have gone through the house under the same frigid guidance had not Carrados been at fault in a way that Mr Carlyle had never known him fail before. In crossing the hall he stumbled over a mat and almost fell. "Pardon my clumsiness," he said to the lady. "I am, unfortunately, quite blind. But," he added, with a smile, to turn off the mishap, "even a blind man must have a house." The man who had eyes was surprised to see a flood of colour rush into Mrs Creake's face. "Blind!" she exclaimed, "oh, I beg your pardon. Why did you not tell me? You might have fallen." "I generally manage fairly well," he replied. "But, of course, in a strange house----" She put her hand on his arm very lightly. "You must let me guide you, just a little," she said. The house, without being large, was full of passages and inconvenient turnings. Carrados asked an occasional question and found Mrs Creake quite amiable without effusion. Mr Carlyle followed them from room to room in the hope, though scarcely the expectation, of learning something that might be useful. "This is the last one. It is the largest bedroom," said their guide. Only two of the upper rooms were fully furnished and Mr Carlyle at once saw, as Carrados knew without seeing, that this was the one which the Creakes occupied. "A very pleasant outlook," declared Mr Carlyle. "Oh, I suppose so," admitted the lady vaguely. The room, in fact, looked over the leafy garden and the road beyond. It had a French window opening on to a small balcony, and to this, under the strange influence that always attracted him to light, Carrados walked. "I expect that there is a certain amount of repair needed?" he said, after standing there a moment. "I am afraid there would be," she confessed. "I ask because there is a sheet of metal on the floor here," he continued. "Now that, in an old house, spells dry rot to the wary observer." "My husband said that the rain, which comes in a little under the window, was rotting the boards there," she replied. "He put that down recently. I had not noticed anything myself." It was the first time she had mentioned her husband; Mr Carlyle pricked up his ears. "Ah, that is a less serious matter," said Carrados. "May I step out on to the balcony?" "Oh yes, if you like to." Then, as he appeared to be fumbling at the catch, "Let me open it for you." But the window was already open, and Carrados, facing the various points of the compass, took in the bearings. "A sunny, sheltered corner," he remarked. "An ideal spot for a deck-chair and a book." She shrugged her shoulders half contemptuously. "I dare say," she replied, "but I never use it." "Sometimes, surely," he persisted mildly. "It would be my favourite retreat. But then----" "I was going to say that I had never even been out on it, but that would not be quite true. It has two uses for me, both equally romantic; I occasionally shake a duster from it, and when my husband returns late without his latchkey he wakes me up and I come out here and drop him mine." Further revelation of Mr Creake's nocturnal habits was cut off, greatly to Mr Carlyle's annoyance, by a cough of unmistakable significance from the foot of the stairs. They had heard a trade cart drive up to the gate, a knock at the door, and the heavy-footed woman tramp along the hall. "Excuse me a minute, please," said Mrs Creake. "Louis," said Carrados, in a sharp whisper, the moment they were alone, "stand against the door." With extreme plausibility Mr Carlyle began to admire a picture so situated that while he was there it was impossible to open the door more than a few inches. From that position he observed his confederate go through the curious procedure of kneeling down on the bedroom floor and for a full minute pressing his ear to the sheet of metal that had already engaged his attention. Then he rose to his feet, nodded, dusted his trousers, and Mr Carlyle moved to a less equivocal position. "What a beautiful rose-tree grows up your balcony," remarked Carrados, stepping into the room as Mrs Creake returned. "I suppose you are very fond of gardening?" "I detest it," she replied. "But this _Glorie_, so carefully trained----?" "Is it?" she replied. "I think my husband was nailing it up recently." By some strange fatality Carrados's most aimless remarks seemed to involve the absent Mr Creake. "Do you care to see the garden?" The garden proved to be extensive and neglected. Behind the house was chiefly orchard. In front, some semblance of order had been kept up; here it was lawn and shrubbery, and the drive they had walked along. Two things interested Carrados: the soil at the foot of the balcony, which he declared on examination to be particularly suitable for roses, and the fine chestnut-tree in the corner by the road. As they walked back to the car Mr Carlyle lamented that they had learned so little of Creake's movements. "Perhaps the telegram will tell us something," suggested Carrados. "Read it, Louis." Mr Carlyle cut open the envelope, glanced at the enclosure, and in spite of his disappointment could not restrain a chuckle. "My poor Max," he explained, "you have put yourself to an amount of ingenious trouble for nothing. Creake is evidently taking a few days' holiday and prudently availed himself of the Meteorological Office forecast before going. Listen: '_Immediate prospect for London warm and settled. Further outlook cooler but fine._' Well, well; I did get a pound of tomatoes for _my_ fourpence." "You certainly scored there, Louis," admitted Carrados, with humorous appreciation. "I wonder," he added speculatively, "whether it is Creake's peculiar taste usually to spend his week-end holiday in London." "Eh?" exclaimed Mr Carlyle, looking at the words again, "by gad, that's rum, Max. They go to Weston-super-Mare. Why on earth should he want to know about London?" "I can make a guess, but before we are satisfied I must come here again. Take another look at that kite, Louis. Are there a few yards of string hanging loose from it?" "Yes, there are." "Rather thick string--unusually thick for the purpose?" "Yes; but how do you know?" As they drove home again Carrados explained, and Mr Carlyle sat aghast, saying incredulously: "Good God, Max, is it possible?" An hour later he was satisfied that it was possible. In reply to his inquiry someone in his office telephoned him the information that "they" had left Paddington by the four-thirty for Weston. It was more than a week after his introduction to Carrados that Lieutenant Hollyer had a summons to present himself at The Turrets again. He found Mr Carlyle already there and the two friends awaiting his arrival. "I stayed in all day after hearing from you this morning, Mr Carrados," he said, shaking hands. "When I got your second message I was all ready to walk straight out of the house. That's how I did it in the time. I hope everything is all right?" "Excellent," replied Carrados. "You'd better have something before we start. We probably have a long and perhaps an exciting night before us." "And certainly a wet one," assented the lieutenant. "It was thundering over Mulling way as I came along." "That is why you are here," said his host. "We are waiting for a certain message before we start, and in the meantime you may as well understand what we expect to happen. As you saw, there is a thunderstorm coming on. The Meteorological Office morning forecast predicted it for the whole of London if the conditions remained. That was why I kept you in readiness. Within an hour it is now inevitable that we shall experience a deluge. Here and there damage will be done to trees and buildings; here and there a person will probably be struck and killed." "Yes." "It is Mr Creake's intention that his wife should be among the victims." "I don't exactly follow," said Hollyer, looking from one man to the other. "I quite admit that Creake would be immensely relieved if such a thing did happen, but the chance is surely an absurdly remote one." "Yet unless we intervene it is precisely what a coroner's jury will decide has happened. Do you know whether your brother-in-law has any practical knowledge of electricity, Mr Hollyer?" "I cannot say. He was so reserved, and we really knew so little of him----" "Yet in 1896 an Austin Creake contributed an article on 'Alternating Currents' to the American _Scientific World_. That would argue a fairly intimate acquaintanceship." "But do you mean that he is going to direct a flash of lightning?" "Only into the minds of the doctor who conducts the post-mortem, and the coroner. This storm, the opportunity for which he has been waiting for weeks, is merely the cloak to his act. The weapon which he has planned to use--scarcely less powerful than lightning but much more tractable--is the high voltage current of electricity that flows along the tram wire at his gate." "Oh!" exclaimed Lieutenant Hollyer, as the sudden revelation struck him. "Some time between eleven o'clock to-night--about the hour when your sister goes to bed--and one-thirty in the morning--the time up to which he can rely on the current--Creake will throw a stone up at the balcony window. Most of his preparation has long been made; it only remains for him to connect up a short length to the window handle and a longer one at the other end to tap the live wire. That done, he will wake his wife in the way I have said. The moment she moves the catch of the window--and he has carefully filed its parts to ensure perfect contact--she will be electrocuted as effectually as if she sat in the executioner's chair in Sing Sing prison." "But what are we doing here!" exclaimed Hollyer, starting to his feet, pale and horrified. "It is past ten now and anything may happen." "Quite natural, Mr Hollyer," said Carrados reassuringly, "but you need have no anxiety. Creake is being watched, the house is being watched, and your sister is as safe as if she slept to-night in Windsor Castle. Be assured that whatever happens he will not be allowed to complete his scheme; but it is desirable to let him implicate himself to the fullest limit. Your brother-in-law, Mr Hollyer, is a man with a peculiar capacity for taking pains." "He is a damned cold-blooded scoundrel!" exclaimed the young officer fiercely. "When I think of Millicent five years ago----" "Well, for that matter, an enlightened nation has decided that electrocution is the most humane way of removing its superfluous citizens," suggested Carrados mildly. "He is certainly an ingenious-minded gentleman. It is his misfortune that in Mr Carlyle he was fated to be opposed by an even subtler brain----" "No, no! Really, Max!" protested the embarrassed gentleman. "Mr Hollyer will be able to judge for himself when I tell him that it was Mr Carlyle who first drew attention to the significance of the abandoned kite," insisted Carrados firmly. "Then, of course, its object became plain to me--as indeed to anyone. For ten minutes, perhaps, a wire must be carried from the overhead line to the chestnut-tree. Creake has everything in his favour, but it is just within possibility that the driver of an inopportune tram might notice the appendage. What of that? Why, for more than a week he has seen a derelict kite with its yards of trailing string hanging in the tree. A very calculating mind, Mr Hollyer. It would be interesting to know what line of action Mr Creake has mapped out for himself afterwards. I expect he has half-a-dozen artistic little touches up his sleeve. Possibly he would merely singe his wife's hair, burn her feet with a red-hot poker, shiver the glass of the French window, and be content with that to let well alone. You see, lightning is so varied in its effects that whatever he did or did not do would be right. He is in the impregnable position of the body showing all the symptoms of death by lightning shock and nothing else but lightning to account for it--a dilated eye, heart contracted in systole, bloodless lungs shrunk to a third the normal weight, and all the rest of it. When he has removed a few outward traces of his work Creake might quite safely 'discover' his dead wife and rush off for the nearest doctor. Or he may have decided to arrange a convincing alibi, and creep away, leaving the discovery to another. We shall never know; he will make no confession." "I wish it was well over," admitted Hollyer. "I'm not particularly jumpy, but this gives me a touch of the creeps." "Three more hours at the worst, Lieutenant," said Carrados cheerfully. "Ah-ha, something is coming through now." He went to the telephone and received a message from one quarter; then made another connection and talked for a few minutes with someone else. "Everything working smoothly," he remarked between times over his shoulder. "Your sister has gone to bed, Mr Hollyer." Then he turned to the house telephone and distributed his orders. "So we," he concluded, "must get up." By the time they were ready a large closed motor car was waiting. The lieutenant thought he recognized Parkinson in the well-swathed form beside the driver, but there was no temptation to linger for a second on the steps. Already the stinging rain had lashed the drive into the semblance of a frothy estuary; all round the lightning jagged its course through the incessant tremulous glow of more distant lightning, while the thunder only ceased its muttering to turn at close quarters and crackle viciously. "One of the few things I regret missing," remarked Carrados tranquilly; "but I hear a good deal of colour in it." The car slushed its way down to the gate, lurched a little heavily across the dip into the road, and, steadying as it came upon the straight, began to hum contentedly along the deserted highway. "We are not going direct?" suddenly inquired Hollyer, after they had travelled perhaps half-a-dozen miles. The night was bewildering enough but he had the sailor's gift for location. "No; through Hunscott Green and then by a field-path to the orchard at the back," replied Carrados. "Keep a sharp look out for the man with the lantern about here, Harris," he called through the tube. "Something flashing just ahead, sir," came the reply, and the car slowed down and stopped. Carrados dropped the near window as a man in glistening waterproof stepped from the shelter of a lich-gate and approached. "Inspector Beedel, sir," said the stranger, looking into the car. "Quite right, Inspector," said Carrados. "Get in." "I have a man with me, sir." "We can find room for him as well." "We are very wet." "So shall we all be soon." The lieutenant changed his seat and the two burly forms took places side by side. In less than five minutes the car stopped again, this time in a grassy country lane. "Now we have to face it," announced Carrados. "The inspector will show us the way." The car slid round and disappeared into the night, while Beedel led the party to a stile in the hedge. A couple of fields brought them to the Brookbend boundary. There a figure stood out of the black foliage, exchanged a few words with their guide and piloted them along the shadows of the orchard to the back door of the house. "You will find a broken pane near the catch of the scullery window," said the blind man. "Right, sir," replied the inspector. "I have it. Now who goes through?" "Mr Hollyer will open the door for us. I'm afraid you must take off your boots and all wet things, Lieutenant. We cannot risk a single spot inside." They waited until the back door opened, then each one divested himself in a similar manner and passed into the kitchen, where the remains of a fire still burned. The man from the orchard gathered together the discarded garments and disappeared again. Carrados turned to the lieutenant. "A rather delicate job for you now, Mr Hollyer. I want you to go up to your sister, wake her, and get her into another room with as little fuss as possible. Tell her as much as you think fit and let her understand that her very life depends on absolute stillness when she is alone. Don't be unduly hurried, but not a glimmer of a light, please." Ten minutes passed by the measure of the battered old alarum on the dresser shelf before the young man returned. "I've had rather a time of it," he reported, with a nervous laugh, "but I think it will be all right now. She is in the spare room." "Then we will take our places. You and Parkinson come with me to the bedroom. Inspector, you have your own arrangements. Mr Carlyle will be with you." They dispersed silently about the house. Hollyer glanced apprehensively at the door of the spare room as they passed it but within was as quiet as the grave. Their room lay at the other end of the passage. "You may as well take your place in the bed now, Hollyer," directed Carrados when they were inside and the door closed. "Keep well down among the clothes. Creake has to get up on the balcony, you know, and he will probably peep through the window, but he dare come no farther. Then when he begins to throw up stones slip on this dressing-gown of your sister's. I'll tell you what to do after." The next sixty minutes drew out into the longest hour that the lieutenant had ever known. Occasionally he heard a whisper pass between the two men who stood behind the window curtains, but he could see nothing. Then Carrados threw a guarded remark in his direction. "He is in the garden now." Something scraped slightly against the outer wall. But the night was full of wilder sounds, and in the house the furniture and the boards creaked and sprung between the yawling of the wind among the chimneys, the rattle of the thunder and the pelting of the rain. It was a time to quicken the steadiest pulse, and when the crucial moment came, when a pebble suddenly rang against the pane with a sound that the tense waiting magnified into a shivering crash, Hollyer leapt from the bed on the instant. "Easy, easy," warned Carrados feelingly. "We will wait for another knock." He passed something across. "Here is a rubber glove. I have cut the wire but you had better put it on. Stand just for a moment at the window, move the catch so that it can blow open a little, and drop immediately. Now." Another stone had rattled against the glass. For Hollyer to go through his part was the work merely of seconds, and with a few touches Carrados spread the dressing-gown to more effective disguise about the extended form. But an unforeseen and in the circumstances rather horrible interval followed, for Creake, in accordance with some detail of his never-revealed plan, continued to shower missile after missile against the panes until even the unimpressionable Parkinson shivered. "The last act," whispered Carrados, a moment after the throwing had ceased. "He has gone round to the back. Keep as you are. We take cover now." He pressed behind the arras of an extemporized wardrobe, and the spirit of emptiness and desolation seemed once more to reign over the lonely house. From half-a-dozen places of concealment ears were straining to catch the first guiding sound. He moved very stealthily, burdened, perhaps, by some strange scruple in the presence of the tragedy that he had not feared to contrive, paused for a moment at the bedroom door, then opened it very quietly, and in the fickle light read the consummation of his hopes. "At last!" they heard the sharp whisper drawn from his relief. "At last!" He took another step and two shadows seemed to fall upon him from behind, one on either side. With primitive instinct a cry of terror and surprise escaped him as he made a desperate movement to wrench himself free, and for a short second he almost succeeded in dragging one hand into a pocket. Then his wrists slowly came together and the handcuffs closed. "I am Inspector Beedel," said the man on his right side. "You are charged with the attempted murder of your wife, Millicent Creake." "You are mad," retorted the miserable creature, falling into a desperate calmness. "She has been struck by lightning." "No, you blackguard, she hasn't," wrathfully exclaimed his brother-in-law, jumping up. "Would you like to see her?" "I also have to warn you," continued the inspector impassively, "that anything you say may be used as evidence against you." A startled cry from the farther end of the passage arrested their attention. "Mr Carrados," called Hollyer, "oh, come at once." At the open door of the other bedroom stood the lieutenant, his eyes still turned towards something in the room beyond, a little empty bottle in his hand. "Dead!" he exclaimed tragically, with a sob, "with this beside her. Dead just when she would have been free of the brute." The blind man passed into the room, sniffed the air, and laid a gentle hand on the pulseless heart. "Yes," he replied. "That, Hollyer, does not always appeal to the woman, strange to say." THE CLEVER MRS STRAITHWAITE Mr Carlyle had arrived at The Turrets in the very best possible spirits. Everything about him, from his immaculate white spats to the choice gardenia in his buttonhole, from the brisk decision with which he took the front-door steps to the bustling importance with which he had positively brushed Parkinson aside at the door of the library, proclaimed consequence and the extremely good terms on which he stood with himself. "Prepare yourself, Max," he exclaimed. "If I hinted at a case of exceptional delicacy that will certainly interest you by its romantic possibilities----?" "I should have the liveliest misgivings. Ten to one it would be a jewel mystery," hazarded Carrados, as his friend paused with the point of his communication withheld, after the manner of a quizzical youngster with a promised bon-bon held behind his back. "If you made any more of it I should reluctantly be forced to the conclusion that the case involved a society scandal connected with a priceless pearl necklace." Mr Carlyle's face fell. "Then it _is_ in the papers, after all?" he said, with an air of disappointment. "What is in the papers, Louis?" "Some hint of the fraudulent insurance of the Hon. Mrs Straithwaite's pearl necklace," replied Carlyle. "Possibly," admitted Carrados. "But so far I have not come across it." Mr Carlyle stared at his friend, and marching up to the table brought his hand down on it with an arresting slap. "Then what in the name of goodness are you talking about, may I ask?" he demanded caustically. "If you know nothing of the Straithwaite affair, Max, what other pearl necklace case are you referring to?" Carrados assumed the air of mild deprecation with which he frequently apologized for a blind man venturing to make a discovery. "A philosopher once made the remark----" "Had it anything to do with Mrs Straithwaite's--the Hon. Mrs Straithwaite's--pearl necklace? And let me warn you, Max, that I have read a good deal both of Mill and Spencer at odd times." "It was neither Mill nor Spencer. He had a German name, so I will not mention it. He made the observation, which, of course, we recognize as an obvious commonplace when once it has been expressed, that in order to have an accurate knowledge of what a man will do on any occasion it is only necessary to study a single characteristic action of his." "Utterly impracticable," declared Mr Carlyle. "I therefore knew that when you spoke of a case of exceptional interest to _me_, what you really meant, Louis, was a case of exceptional interest to _you_." Mr Carlyle's sudden thoughtful silence seemed to admit that possibly there might be something in the point. "By applying, almost unconsciously, the same useful rule, I became aware that a mystery connected with a valuable pearl necklace and a beautiful young society belle would appeal the most strongly to your romantic imagination." "Romantic! I, romantic? Thirty-five and a private inquiry agent! You are--positively feverish, Max." "Incurably romantic--or you would have got over it by now: the worst kind." "Max, this may prove a most important and interesting case. Will you be serious and discuss it?" "Jewel cases are rarely either important or interesting. Pearl necklace mysteries, in nine cases out of ten, spring from the miasma of social pretence and vapid competition and only concern people who do not matter in the least. The only attractive thing about them is the name. They are so barren of originality that a criminological Linnæus could classify them with absolute nicety. I'll tell you what, we'll draw up a set of tables giving the solution to every possible pearl necklace case for the next twenty-one years." "We will do any mortal thing you like, Max, if you will allow Parkinson to administer a bromo-seltzer and then enable me to meet the officials of the Direct Insurance without a blush." For three minutes Carrados picked his unerring way among the furniture as he paced the room silently but with irresolution in his face. Twice his hand went to a paper-covered book lying on his desk, and twice he left it untouched. "Have you ever been in the lion-house at feeding-time, Louis?" he demanded abruptly. "In the very remote past, possibly," admitted Mr Carlyle guardedly. "As the hour approaches it is impossible to interest the creatures with any other suggestion than that of raw meat. You came a day too late, Louis." He picked up the book and skimmed it adroitly into Mr Carlyle's hands. "I have already scented the gore, and tasted in imagination the joy of tearing choice morsels from other similarly obsessed animals." "'Catalogue des monnaies grecques et romaines,'" read the gentleman. "'To be sold by auction at the Hotel Drouet, Paris, salle 8, April the 24th, 25th, etc.' H'm." He turned to the plates of photogravure illustration which gave an air to the volume. "This is an event, I suppose?" "It is the sort of dispersal we get about once in three years," replied Carrados. "I seldom attend the little sales, but I save up and then have a week's orgy." "And when do you go?" "To-day. By the afternoon boat--Folkestone. I have already taken rooms at Mascot's. I'm sorry it has fallen so inopportunely, Louis." Mr Carlyle rose to the occasion with a display of extremely gentlemanly feeling--which had the added merit of being quite genuine. "My dear chap, your regrets only serve to remind me how much I owe to you already. _Bon voyage_, and the most desirable of Eu--Eu--well, perhaps it would be safer to say, of Kimons, for your collection." "I suppose," pondered Carrados, "this insurance business might have led to other profitable connexions?" "That is quite true," admitted his friend. "I have been trying for some time--but do not think any more of it, Max." "What time is it?" demanded Carrados suddenly. "Eleven-twenty-five." "Good. Has any officious idiot had anyone arrested?" "No, it is only----" "Never mind. Do you know much of the case?" "Practically nothing as yet, unfortunately. I came----" "Excellent. Everything is on our side. Louis, I won't go this afternoon--I will put off till the night boat from Dover. That will give us nine hours." "Nine hours?" repeated the mystified Carlyle, scarcely daring to put into thought the scandalous inference that Carrados's words conveyed. "Nine full hours. A pearl necklace case that cannot at least be left straight after nine hours' work will require a column to itself in our chart. Now, Louis, where does this Direct Insurance live?" Carlyle had allowed his blind friend to persuade him into--as they had seemed at the beginning--many mad enterprises. But none had ever, in the light of his own experience, seemed so foredoomed to failure as when, at eleven-thirty, Carrados ordered his luggage to be on the platform of Charing Cross Station at eight-fifty and then turned light-heartedly to the task of elucidating the mystery of Mrs Straithwaite's pearl necklace in the interval. The head office of the Direct and Intermediate Insurance Company proved to be in Victoria Street. Thanks to Carrados's speediest car, they entered the building as the clocks of Westminster were striking twelve, but for the next twenty minutes they were consigned to the general office while Mr Carlyle fumed and displayed his watch ostentatiously. At last a clerk slid off his stool by the speaking-tube and approached them. "Mr Carlyle?" he said. "The General Manager will see you now, but as he has another appointment in ten minutes he will be glad if you will make your business as short as possible. This way, please." Mr Carlyle bit his lip at the pompous formality of the message but he was too experienced to waste any words about it and with a mere nod he followed, guiding his friend until they reached the Manager's room. But, though subservient to circumstance, he was far from being negligible when he wished to create an impression. "Mr Carrados has been good enough to give us a consultation over this small affair," he said, with just the necessary touches of deference and condescension that it was impossible either to miss or to resent. "Unfortunately he can do little more as he has to leave almost at once to direct an important case in Paris." The General Manager conveyed little, either in his person or his manner, of the brisk precision that his message seemed to promise. The name of Carrados struck him as being somewhat familiar--something a little removed from the routine of his business and a matter therefore that he could unbend over. He continued to stand comfortably before his office fire, making up by a tolerant benignity of his hard and bulbous eye for the physical deprivation that his attitude entailed on his visitors. "Paris, egad?" he grunted. "Something in your line that France can take from us since the days of--what's-his-name--Vidocq, eh? Clever fellow, that, what? Wasn't it about him and the Purloined Letter?" Carrados smiled discreetly. "Capital, wasn't it?" he replied. "But there is something else that Paris can learn from London, more in your way, sir. Often when I drop in to see the principal of one of their chief houses or the head of a Government department, we fall into an entertaining discussion of this or that subject that may be on the tapis. 'Ah, monsieur,' I say, after perhaps half-an-hour's conversation, 'it is very amiable of you and sometimes I regret our insular methods, but it is not thus that great businesses are formed. At home, if I call upon one of our princes of industry--a railway director, a merchant, or the head of one of our leading insurance companies--nothing will tempt him for a moment from the stern outline of the business in hand. You are too complaisant; the merest gossip takes advantage of you.'" "That's quite true," admitted the General Manager, occupying the revolving chair at his desk and assuming a serious and very determined expression. "Slackers, I call them. Now, Mr Carlyle, where are we in this business?" "I have your letter of yesterday. We should naturally like all the particulars you can give us." The Manager threw open a formidable-looking volume with an immense display of energy, sharply flattened some typewritten pages that had ventured to raise their heads, and lifted an impressive finger. "We start here, the 27th of January. On that day Karsfeld, the Princess Street jeweller, y'know, who acted as our jewellery assessor, forwards a proposal of the Hon. Mrs Straithwaite to insure a pearl necklace against theft. Says that he has had an opportunity of examining it and passes it at five thousand pounds. That business goes through in the ordinary way; the premium is paid and the policy taken out. "A couple of months later Karsfeld has a little unpleasantness with us and resigns. Resignation accepted. We have nothing against him, you understand. At the same time there is an impression among the directors that he has been perhaps a little too easy in his ways, a little too--let us say, expansive, in some of his valuations and too accommodating to his own clients in recommending to us business of a--well--speculative basis; business that we do not care about and which we now feel is foreign to our traditions as a firm. However"--the General Manager threw apart his stubby hands as though he would shatter any fabric of criminal intention that he might be supposed to be insidiously constructing--"that is the extent of our animadversion against Karsfeld. There are no irregularities and you may take it from me that the man is all right." "You would propose accepting the fact that a five-thousand-pound necklace was submitted to him?" suggested Mr Carlyle. "I should," acquiesced the Manager, with a weighty nod. "Still--this brings us to April the third--this break, so to speak, occurring in our routine, it seemed a good opportunity for us to assure ourselves on one or two points. Mr Bellitzer--you know Bellitzer, of course; know _of_ him, I should say--was appointed _vice_ Karsfeld and we wrote to certain of our clients, asking them--as our policies entitled us to do--as a matter of form to allow Mr Bellitzer to confirm the assessment of his predecessor. Wrapped it up in silver paper, of course; said it would certify the present value and be a guarantee that would save them some formalities in case of ensuing claim, and so on. Among others, wrote to the Hon. Mrs Straithwaite to that effect--April fourth. Here is her reply of three days later. Sorry to disappoint us, but the necklace has just been sent to her bank for custody as she is on the point of leaving town. Also scarcely sees that it is necessary in her case as the insurance was only taken so recently." "That is dated April the seventh?" inquired Mr Carlyle, busy with pencil and pocket-book. "April seventh," repeated the Manager, noting this conscientiousness with an approving glance and then turning to regard questioningly the indifferent attitude of his other visitor. "That put us on our guard--naturally. Wrote by return regretting the necessity and suggesting that a line to her bankers, authorizing them to show us the necklace, would meet the case and save her any personal trouble. Interval of a week. Her reply, April sixteenth. Thursday last. Circumstances have altered her plans and she has returned to London sooner than she expected. Her jewel-case has been returned from the bank, and will we send our man round--'our man,' Mr Carlyle!--on Saturday morning not later than twelve, please." The Manager closed the record book, with a sweep of his hand cleared his desk for revelations, and leaning forward in his chair fixed Mr Carlyle with a pragmatic eye. "On Saturday Mr Bellitzer goes to Luneburg Mansions and the Hon. Mrs Straithwaite shows him the necklace. He examines it carefully, assesses its insurable value up to five thousand, two hundred and fifty pounds, and reports us to that effect. But he reports something else, Mr Carlyle. It is not the necklace that the lady had insured." "Not the necklace?" echoed Mr Carlyle. "No. In spite of the number of pearls and a general similarity there are certain technical differences, well known to experts, that made the fact indisputable. The Hon. Mrs Straithwaite has been guilty of misrepresentation. Possibly she has no fraudulent intention. We are willing to pay to find out. That's your business." Mr Carlyle made a final note and put away his book with an air of decision that could not fail to inspire confidence. "To-morrow," he said, "we shall perhaps be able to report something." "Hope so," vouchsafed the Manager. "'Morning." From his position near the window, Carrados appeared to wake up to the fact that the interview was over. "But so far," he remarked blandly, with his eyes towards the great man in the chair, "you have told us nothing of the theft." The Manager regarded the speaker dumbly for a moment and then turned to Mr Carlyle. "What does he mean?" he demanded pungently. But for once Mr Carlyle's self-possession had forsaken him. He recognized that somehow Carrados had been guilty of an appalling lapse, by which his reputation for prescience was wrecked in that quarter for ever, and at the catastrophe his very ears began to exude embarrassment. In the awkward silence Carrados himself seemed to recognize that something was amiss. "We appear to be at cross-purposes," he observed. "I inferred that the disappearance of the necklace would be the essence of our investigation." "Have I said a word about it disappearing?" demanded the Manager, with a contempt-laden raucity that he made no pretence of softening. "You don't seem to have grasped the simple facts about the case, Mr Carrados. Really, I hardly think----Oh, come in!" There had been a knock at the door, then another. A clerk now entered with an open telegram. "Mr Longworth wished you to see this at once, sir." "We may as well go," whispered Mr Carlyle with polite depression to his colleague. "Here, wait a minute," said the Manager, who had been biting his thumb-nail over the telegram. "No, not you"--to the lingering clerk--"you clear." Much of the embarrassment that had troubled Mr Carlyle a minute before seemed to have got into the Manager's system. "I don't understand this," he confessed awkwardly. "It's from Bellitzer. He wires: '_Have just heard alleged robbery Straithwaite pearls. Advise strictest investigation._'" Mr Carlyle suddenly found it necessary to turn to the wall and consult a highly coloured lithographic inducement to insure. Mr Carrados alone remained to meet the Manager's constrained glance. "Still, _he_ tells us really nothing about the theft," he remarked sociably. "No," admitted the Manager, experiencing some little difficulty with his breathing, "he does not." "Well, we still hope to be able to report something to-morrow. Good-bye." It was with an effort that Mr Carlyle straightened himself sufficiently to take leave of the Manager. Several times in the corridor he stopped to wipe his eyes. "Max, you unholy fraud," he said, when they were outside, "you knew all the time." "No; I told you that I knew nothing of it," replied Carrados frankly. "I am absolutely sincere." "Then all I can say is, that I see a good many things happen that I don't believe in." Carrados's reply was to hold out a coin to a passing newsboy and to hand the purchase to his friend who was already in the car. "There is a slang injunction to 'keep your eyes skinned.' That being out of my power, I habitually 'keep my ears skinned.' You would be surprised to know how very little you hear, Louis, and how much you miss. In the last five minutes up there I have had three different newsboys' account of this development." "By Jupiter, she hasn't waited long!" exclaimed Mr Carlyle, referring eagerly to the headlines. "'PEARL NECKLACE SENSATION. SOCIETY LADY'S £5000 TRINKET DISAPPEARS.' Things are moving. Where next, Max?" "It is now a quarter to one," replied Carrados, touching the fingers of his watch. "We may as well lunch on the strength of this new turn. Parkinson will have finished packing; I can telephone him to come to us at Merrick's in case I require him. Buy all the papers, Louis, and we will collate the points." The undoubted facts that survived a comparison were few and meagre, for in each case a conscientious journalist had touched up a few vague or doubtful details according to his own ideas of probability. All agreed that on Tuesday evening--it was now Thursday--Mrs Straithwaite had formed one of a party that had occupied a box at the new Metropolitan Opera House to witness the performance of _La Pucella_, and that she had been robbed of a set of pearls valued in round figures at five thousand pounds. There agreement ended. One version represented the theft as taking place at the theatre. Another asserted that at the last moment the lady had decided not to wear the necklace that evening and that its abstraction had been cleverly effected from the flat during her absence. Into a third account came an ambiguous reference to Markhams, the well-known jewellers, and a conjecture that their loss would certainly be covered by insurance. Mr Carlyle, who had been picking out the salient points of the narratives, threw down the last paper with an impatient shrug. "Why in heaven's name have we Markhams coming into it now?" he demanded. "What have they to lose by it, Max? What do you make of the thing?" "There is the second genuine string--the one Bellitzer saw. That belongs to someone." "By gad, that's true--only five days ago, too. But what does our lady stand to make by that being stolen?" Carrados was staring into obscurity between an occasional moment of attention to his cigarette or coffee. "By this time the lady probably stands to wish she was well out of it," he replied thoughtfully. "Once you have set this sort of stone rolling and it has got beyond you----" He shook his head. "It has become more intricate than you expected?" suggested Carlyle, in order to afford his friend an opportunity of withdrawing. Carrados pierced the intention and smiled affectionately. "My dear Louis," he said, "one-fifth of the mystery is already solved." "One-fifth? How do you arrive at that?" "Because it is one-twenty-five and we started at eleven-thirty." He nodded to their waiter, who was standing three tables away, and paid the bill. Then with perfect gravity he permitted Mr Carlyle to lead him by the arm into the street, where their car was waiting, Parkinson already there in attendance. "Sure I can be of no further use?" asked Carlyle. Carrados had previously indicated that after lunch he would go on alone, but, because he was largely sceptical of the outcome, the professional man felt guiltily that he was deserting. "Say the word?" Carrados smiled and shook his head. Then he leaned across. "I am going to the opera house now; then, possibly, to talk to Markham a little. If I have time I must find a man who knows the Straithwaites, and after that I may look up Inspector Beedel if he is at the Yard. That is as far as I can see yet, until I call at Luneburg Mansions. Come round on the third anyway." "Dear old chap," murmured Mr Carlyle, as the car edged its way ahead among the traffic. "Marvellous shots he makes!" In the meanwhile, at Luneburg Mansions, Mrs Straithwaite had been passing anything but a pleasant day. She had awakened with a headache and an overnight feeling that there was some unpleasantness to be gone on with. That it did not amount to actual fear was due to the enormous self-importance and the incredible ignorance which ruled the butterfly brain of the young society beauty--for in spite of three years' experience of married life Stephanie Straithwaite was as yet on the enviable side of two and twenty. Anticipating an early visit from a particularly obnoxious sister-in-law, she had remained in bed until after lunch in order to be able to deny herself with the more conviction. Three journalists who would have afforded her the mild excitement of being interviewed had called and been in turn put off with polite regrets by her husband. The objectionable sister-in-law postponed her visit until the afternoon and for more than an hour Stephanie "suffered agonies." When the visitor had left and the martyred hostess announced her intention of flying immediately to the consoling society of her own bridge circle, Straithwaite had advised her, with some significance, to wait for a lead. The unhappy lady cast herself bodily down upon a couch and asked whether she was to become a nun. Straithwaite merely shrugged his shoulders and remembered a club engagement. Evidently there was no need for him to become a monk: Stephanie followed him down the hall, arguing and protesting. That was how they came jointly to encounter Carrados at the door. "I have come from the Direct Insurance in the hope of being able to see Mrs Straithwaite," he explained, when the door opened rather suddenly before he had knocked. "My name is Carrados--Max Carrados." There was a moment of hesitation all round. Then Stephanie read difficulties in the straightening lines of her husband's face and rose joyfully to the occasion. "Oh yes; come in, Mr Carrados," she exclaimed graciously. "We are not quite strangers, you know. You found out something for Aunt Pigs; I forget what, but she was most frantically impressed." "Lady Poges," enlarged Straithwaite, who had stepped aside and was watching the development with slow, calculating eyes. "But, I say, you are blind, aren't you?" Carrados's smiling admission turned the edge of Mrs Straithwaite's impulsive, "Teddy!" "But I get along all right," he added. "I left my man down in the car and I found your door first shot, you see." The references reminded the velvet-eyed little mercenary that the man before her had the reputation of being quite desirably rich, his queer taste merely an eccentric hobby. The consideration made her resolve to be quite her nicest possible, as she led the way to the drawing-room. Then Teddy, too, had been horrid beyond words and must be made to suffer in the readiest way that offered. "Teddy is just going out and I was to be left in solitary bereavement if you had not appeared," she explained airily. "It wasn't very compy only to come to see me on business by the way, Mr Carrados, but if those are your only terms I must agree." Straithwaite, however, did not seem to have the least intention of going. He had left his hat and stick in the hall and he now threw his yellow gloves down on a table and took up a negligent position on the arm of an easy-chair. "The thing is, where do we stand?" he remarked tentatively. "That is the attitude of the insurance company, I imagine," replied Carrados. "I don't see that the company has any standing in the matter. We haven't reported any loss to them and we are not making any claim, so far. That ought to be enough." "I assume that they act on general inference," explained Carrados. "A limited liability company is not subtle, Mrs Straithwaite. This one knows that you have insured a five-thousand-pound pearl necklace with it, and when it becomes a matter of common knowledge that you have had one answering to that description stolen, it jumps to the conclusion that they are one and the same." "But they aren't--worse luck," explained the hostess. "This was a string that I let Markhams send me to see if I would keep." "The one that Bellitzer saw last Saturday?" "Yes," admitted Mrs Straithwaite quite simply. Straithwaite glanced sharply at Carrados and then turned his eyes with lazy indifference to his wife. "My dear Stephanie, what are you thinking of?" he drawled. "Of course those could not have been Markhams' pearls. Not knowing that you are much too clever to do such a foolish thing, Mr Carrados will begin to think that you have had fraudulent designs upon his company." Whether the tone was designed to exasperate or merely fell upon a fertile soil, Stephanie threw a hateful little glance in his direction. "I don't care," she exclaimed recklessly; "I haven't the least little objection in the world to Mr Carrados knowing exactly how it happened." Carrados put in an instinctive word of warning, even raised an arresting hand, but the lady was much too excited, too voluble, to be denied. "It doesn't really matter in the least, Mr Carrados, because nothing came of it," she explained. "There never were any real pearls to be insured. It would have made no difference to the company, because I did not regard this as an ordinary insurance from the first. It was to be a loan." "A loan?" repeated Carrados. "Yes. I shall come into heaps and heaps of money in a few years' time under Prin-Prin's will. Then I should pay back whatever had been advanced." "But would it not have been better--simpler--to have borrowed purely on the anticipation?" "We have," explained the lady eagerly. "We have borrowed from all sorts of people, and both Teddy and I have signed heaps and heaps of papers, until now no one will lend any more." The thing was too tragically grotesque to be laughed at. Carrados turned his face from one to the other and by ear, and by even finer perceptions, he focussed them in his mind--the delicate, feather-headed beauty, with the heart of a cat and the irresponsibility of a kitten, eye and mouth already hardening under the stress of her frantic life, and, across the room, her debonair consort, whose lank pose and nonchalant attitude towards the situation Carrados had not yet categorized. Straithwaite's dry voice, with its habitual drawl, broke into his reflection. "I don't suppose for a moment that you either know or care what this means, my dear girl, but I will proceed to enlighten you. It means the extreme probability that unless you can persuade Mr Carrados to hold his tongue, you, and--without prejudice--I also, will get two years' hard. And yet, with unconscious but consummate artistry, it seems to me that you have perhaps done the trick; for, unless I am mistaken, Mr Carrados will find himself unable to take advantage of your guileless confidence, whereas he would otherwise have quite easily found out all he wanted." "That is the most utter nonsense, Teddy," cried Stephanie, with petulant indignation. She turned to Carrados with the assurance of meeting understanding. "We know Mr Justice Enderleigh very well indeed, and if there was any bother I should not have the least difficulty in getting him to take the case privately and in explaining everything to him. But why should there be? Why indeed?" A brilliant little new idea possessed her. "Do you know any of these insurance people at all intimately, Mr Carrados?" "The General Manager and I are on terms that almost justify us in addressing each other as 'silly ass,'" admitted Carrados. "There you see, Teddy, you needn't have been in a funk. Mr Carrados would put everything right. Let me tell you exactly how I had arranged it. I dare say you know that insurances are only too pleased to pay for losses: it gives them an advertisement. Freddy Tantroy told me so, and his father is a director of hundreds of companies. Only, of course, it must be done quite regularly. Well, for months and months we had both been most frightfully hard up, and, unfortunately, everyone else--at least all our friends--seemed just as stony. I had been absolutely racking my poor brain for an idea when I remembered papa's wedding present. It was a string of pearls that he sent me from Vienna, only a month before he died; not real, of course, because poor papa was always quite utterly on the verge himself, but very good imitation and in perfect taste. Otherwise I am sure papa would rather have sent a silver penwiper, for although he had to live abroad because of what people said, his taste was simply exquisite and he was most romantic in his ideas. What do you say, Teddy?" "Nothing, dear; it was only my throat ticking." "I wore the pearls often and millions of people had seen them. Of course our own people knew about them, but others took it for granted that they were genuine for me to be wearing them. Teddy will tell you that I was almost babbling in delirium, things were becoming so ghastly, when an idea occurred. Tweety--she's a cousin of Teddy's, but quite an aged person--has a whole coffer full of jewels that she never wears and I knew that there was a necklace very like mine among them. She was going almost immediately to Africa for some shooting, so I literally flew into the wilds of Surrey and begged her on my knees to lend me her pearls for the Lycester House dance. When I got back with them I stamped on the clasp and took it at once to Karsfeld in Princess Street. I told him they were only paste but I thought they were rather good and I wanted them by the next day. And of course he looked at them, and then looked again, and then asked me if I was certain they were imitation, and I said, Well, we had never thought twice about it, because poor papa was always rather chronic, only certainly he did occasionally have fabulous streaks at the tables, and finally, like a great owl, Karsfeld said: "'I am happy to be able to congratulate you, madam. They are undoubtedly Bombay pearls of very fine orient. They are certainly worth five thousand pounds.'" From this point Mrs Straithwaite's narrative ran its slangy, obvious course. The insurance effected--on the strict understanding of the lady with herself that it was merely a novel form of loan, and after satisfying her mind on Freddy Tantroy's authority that the Direct and Intermediate could stand a temporary loss of five thousand pounds--the genuine pearls were returned to the cousin in the wilds of Surrey and Stephanie continued to wear the counterfeit. A decent interval was allowed to intervene and the plot was on the point of maturity when the company's request for a scrutiny fell like a thunderbolt. With many touching appeals to Mr Carrados to picture her frantic distraction, with appropriate little gestures of agony and despair, Stephanie described her absolute prostration, her subsequent wild scramble through the jewel stocks of London to find a substitute. The danger over, it became increasingly necessary to act without delay, not only to anticipate possible further curiosity on the part of the insurance, but in order to secure the means with which to meet an impending obligation held over them by an inflexibly obdurate Hebrew. The evening of the previous Tuesday was to be the time; the opera house, during the performance of _La Pucella_, the place. Straithwaite, who was not interested in that precise form of drama, would not be expected to be present, but with a false moustache and a few other touches which his experience as an amateur placed within his easy reach, he was to occupy a stall, an end stall somewhere beneath his wife's box. At an agreed signal Stephanie would jerk open the catch of the necklace, and as she leaned forward the ornament would trickle off her neck and disappear into the arena beneath. Straithwaite, the only one prepared for anything happening, would have no difficulty in securing it. He would look up quickly as if to identify the box, and with the jewels in his hand walk deliberately out into the passage. Before anyone had quite realized what was happening he would have left the house. Carrados turned his face from the woman to the man. "This scheme commended itself to you, Mr Straithwaite?" "Well, you see, Stephanie is so awfully clever that I took it for granted that the thing would go all right." "And three days before, Bellitzer had already reported misrepresentation and that two necklaces had been used!" "Yes," admitted Straithwaite, with an air of reluctant candour, "I had a suspicion that Stephanie's native ingenuity rather fizzled there. You know, Stephanie dear, there _is_ a difference, it seems, between Bombay and Californian pearls." "The wretch!" exclaimed the girl, grinding her little teeth vengefully. "And we gave him champagne!" "But nothing came of it; so it doesn't matter?" prompted Straithwaite. "Except that now Markhams' pearls have gone and they are hinting at all manner of diabolical things," she wrathfully reminded him. "True," he confessed. "That is by way of a sequel, Mr Carrados. I will endeavour to explain that part of the incident, for even yet Stephanie seems unable to do me justice." He detached himself from the arm of the chair and lounged across the room to another chair, where he took up exactly the same position. "On the fatal evening I duly made my way to the theatre--a little late, so as to take my seat unobserved. After I had got the general hang I glanced up occasionally until I caught Stephanie's eye, by which I knew that she was there all right and concluded that everything was going along quite jollily. According to arrangement, I was to cross the theatre immediately the first curtain fell and standing opposite Stephanie's box twist my watch chain until it was certain that she had seen me. Then Stephanie was to fan herself three times with her programme. Both, you will see, perfectly innocent operations, and yet conveying to each other the intimation that all was well. Stephanie's idea, of course. After that, I would return to my seat and Stephanie would do her part at the first opportunity in Act II. "However, we never reached that. Towards the end of the first act something white and noiseless slipped down and fell at my feet. For the moment I thought they were the pearls gone wrong. Then I saw that it was a glove--a lady's glove. Intuition whispered that it was Stephanie's before I touched it. I picked it up and quietly got out. Down among the fingers was a scrap of paper--the corner torn off a programme. On it were pencilled words to this effect: "'Something quite unexpected. Can do nothing to-night. Go back at once and wait. May return early. Frightfully worried.--S.'" "You kept the paper, of course?" "Yes. It is in my desk in the next room. Do you care to see it?" "Please." Straithwaite left the room and Stephanie flung herself into a charming attitude of entreaty. "Mr Carrados, you will get them back for us, won't you? It would not really matter, only I seem to have signed something and now Markhams threaten to bring an action against us for culpable negligence in leaving them in an empty flat." "You see," explained Straithwaite, coming back in time to catch the drift of his wife's words, "except to a personal friend like yourself, it is quite impossible to submit these clues. The first one alone would raise embarrassing inquiries; the other is beyond explanation. Consequently I have been obliged to concoct an imaginary burglary in our absence and to drop the necklace case among the rhododendrons in the garden at the back, for the police to find." "Deeper and deeper," commented Carrados. "Why, yes. Stephanie and I are finding that out, aren't we, dear? However, here is the first note; also the glove. Of course I returned immediately. It was Stephanie's strategy and I was under her orders. In something less than half-an-hour I heard a motor car stop outside. Then the bell here rang. "I think I have said that I was alone. I went to the door and found a man who might have been anything standing there. He merely said: 'Mr Straithwaite?' and on my nodding handed me a letter. I tore it open in the hall and read it. Then I went into my room and read it again. This is it: "'DEAR T.,--Absolutely ghastly. We simply must put off to-night. Will explain that later. Now what do you think? Bellitzer is here in the stalls and young K. D. has asked him to join us at supper at the Savoy. It appears that the creature is Something and I suppose the D.'s want to borrow off him. I can't get out of it and I am literally quaking. Don't you see, he will spot something? Send me the M. string at once and I will change somehow before supper. I am scribbling this in the dark. I have got the Willoughby's man to take it. Don't, don't fail.--S.'" "It is ridiculous, preposterous," snapped Stephanie. "I never wrote a word of it--or the other. There was I, sitting the whole evening. And Teddy--oh, it is maddening!" "I took it into my room and looked at it closely," continued the unruffled Straithwaite. "Even if I had any reason to doubt, the internal evidence was convincing, but how could I doubt? It read like a continuation of the previous message. The writing was reasonably like Stephanie's under the circumstances, the envelope had obviously been obtained from the box-office of the theatre and the paper itself was a sheet of the programme. A corner was torn off; I put against it the previous scrap and they exactly fitted." The gentleman shrugged his shoulders, stretched his legs with deliberation and walked across the room to look out of the window. "I made them up into a neat little parcel and handed it over," he concluded. Carrados put down the two pieces of paper which he had been minutely examining with his finger-tips and still holding the glove addressed his small audience collectively. "The first and most obvious point is that whoever carried out the scheme had more than a vague knowledge of your affairs, not only in general but also relating to this--well, loan, Mrs Straithwaite." "Just what I have insisted," agreed Straithwaite. "You hear that, Stephanie?" "But who is there?" pleaded Stephanie, with weary intonation. "Absolutely no one in the wide world. Not a soul." "So one is liable to think offhand. Let us go further, however, merely accounting for those who are in a position to have information. There are the officials of the insurance company who suspect something; there is Bellitzer, who perhaps knows a little more. There is the lady in Surrey from whom the pearls were borrowed, a Mr Tantroy who seems to have been consulted, and, finally, your own servants. All these people have friends, or underlings, or observers. Suppose Mr Bellitzer's confidential clerk happens to be the sweetheart of your maid?" "They would still know very little." "The arc of a circle may be very little, but, given that, it is possible to construct the entire figure. Now your servants, Mrs Straithwaite? We are accusing no one, of course." "There is the cook, Mullins. She displayed alarming influenza on Tuesday morning, and although it was most frightfully inconvenient I packed her off home without a moment's delay. I have a horror of the influ. Then Fraser, the parlourmaid. She does my hair--I haven't really got a maid, you know." "Peter," prompted Straithwaite. "Oh yes, Beta. She's a daily girl and helps in the kitchen. I have no doubt she is capable of any villainy." "And all were out on Tuesday evening?" "Yes. Mullins gone home. Beta left early as there was no dinner, and I told Fraser to take the evening after she had dressed me so that Teddy could make up and get out without being seen." Carrados turned to his other witness. "The papers and the glove have been with you ever since?" "Yes, in my desk." "Locked?" "Yes." "And this glove, Mrs Straithwaite? There is no doubt that it is yours?" "I suppose not," she replied. "I never thought. I know that when I came to leave the theatre one had vanished and Teddy had it here." "That was the first time you missed it?" "Yes." "But it might have gone earlier in the evening--mislaid or lost or stolen?" "I remember taking them off in the box. I sat in the corner farthest from the stage--the front row, of course--and I placed them on the support." "Where anyone in the next box could abstract one without much difficulty at a favourable moment." "That is quite likely. But we didn't see anyone in the next box." "I have half an idea that I caught sight of someone hanging back," volunteered Straithwaite. "Thank you," said Carrados, turning towards him almost gratefully. "That is most important--that you think you saw someone hanging back. Now the other glove, Mrs Straithwaite; what became of that?" "An odd glove is not very much good, is it?" said Stephanie. "Certainly I wore it coming back. I think I threw it down somewhere in here. Probably it is still about. We are in a frantic muddle and nothing is being done." The second glove was found on the floor in a corner. Carrados received it and laid it with the other. "You use a very faint and characteristic scent, I notice, Mrs Straithwaite," he observed. "Yes; it is rather sweet, isn't it? I don't know the name because it is in Russian. A friend in the Embassy sent me some bottles from Petersburg." "But on Tuesday you supplemented it with something stronger," he continued, raising the gloves delicately one after the other to his face. "Oh, eucalyptus; rather," she admitted. "I simply drenched my handkerchief with it." "You have other gloves of the same pattern?" "Have I? Now let me think! Did you give them to me, Teddy?" "No," replied Straithwaite from the other end of the room. He had lounged across to the window and his attitude detached him from the discussion. "Didn't Whitstable?" he added shortly. "Of course. Then there are three pairs, Mr Carrados, because I never let Bimbi lose more than that to me at once, poor boy." "I think you are rather tiring yourself out, Stephanie," warned her husband. Carrados's attention seemed to leap to the voice; then he turned courteously to his hostess. "I appreciate that you have had a trying time lately, Mrs Straithwaite," he said. "Every moment I have been hoping to let you out of the witness-box----" "Perhaps to-morrow----" began Straithwaite, recrossing the room. "Impossible; I leave town to-night," replied Carrados firmly. "You have three pairs of these gloves, Mrs Straithwaite. Here is one. The other two----?" "One pair I have not worn yet. The other--good gracious, I haven't been out since Tuesday! I suppose it is in my glove-box." "I must see it, please." Straithwaite opened his mouth, but as his wife obediently rose to her feet to comply he turned sharply away with the word unspoken. "These are they," she said, returning. "Mr Carrados and I will finish our investigation in my room," interposed Straithwaite, with quiet assertiveness. "I should advise you to lie down for half-an-hour, Stephanie, if you don't want to be a nervous wreck to-morrow." "You must allow the culprit to endorse that good advice, Mrs Straithwaite," added Carrados. He had been examining the second pair of gloves as they spoke and he now handed them back again. "They are undoubtedly of the same set," he admitted, with extinguished interest, "and so our clue runs out." "I hope you don't mind," apologized Straithwaite, as he led his guest to his own smoking-room. "Stephanie," he confided, becoming more cordial as two doors separated them from the lady, "is a creature of nerves and indiscretions. She forgets. To-night she will not sleep. To-morrow she will suffer." Carrados divined the grin. "So shall I!" "On the contrary, pray accept my regrets," said the visitor. "Besides," he continued, "there is nothing more for me to do here, I suppose...." "It is a mystery," admitted Straithwaite, with polite agreement. "Will you try a cigarette?" "Thanks. Can you see if my car is below?" They exchanged cigarettes and stood at the window lighting them. "There is one point, by the way, that may have some significance." Carrados had begun to recross the room and stopped to pick up the two fictitious messages. "You will have noticed that this is the outside sheet of a programme. It is not the most suitable for the purpose; the first inner sheet is more convenient to write on, but there the date appears. You see the inference? The programme was obtained before----" "Perhaps. Well----?" for Carrados had broken off abruptly and was listening. "You hear someone coming up the steps?" "It is the general stairway." "Mr Straithwaite, I don't know how far this has gone in other quarters. We may only have a few seconds before we are interrupted." "What do you mean?" "I mean that the man who is now on the stairs is a policeman or has worn the uniform. If he stops at your door----" The heavy tread ceased. Then came the authoritative knock. "Wait," muttered Carrados, laying his hand impressively on Straithwaite's tremulous arm. "I may recognize the voice." They heard the servant pass along the hall and the door unlatched; then caught the jumble of a gruff inquiry. "Inspector Beedel of Scotland Yard!" The servant repassed their door on her way to the drawing-room. "It is no good disguising the fact from you, Mr Straithwaite, that you may no longer be at liberty. But I am. _Is there anything you wish done?_" There was no time for deliberation. Straithwaite was indeed between the unenviable alternatives of the familiar proverb, but, to do him justice, his voice had lost scarcely a ripple of its usual sang-froid. "Thanks," he replied, taking a small stamped and addressed parcel from his pocket, "you might drop this into some obscure pillar-box, if you will." "The Markham necklace?" "Exactly. I was going out to post it when you came." "I am sure you were." "And if you could spare five minutes later--if I am here----" Carrados slid his cigarette-case under some papers on the desk. "I will call for that," he assented. "Let us say about half-past eight." * * * * * "I am still at large, you see, Mr Carrados; though after reflecting on the studied formality of the inspector's business here, I imagine that you will scarcely be surprised." "I have made it a habit," admitted Carrados, "never to be surprised." "However, I still want to cut a rather different figure in your eyes. You regard me, Mr Carrados, either as a detected rogue or a repentant ass?" "Another excellent rule is never to form deductions from uncertainties." Straithwaite made a gesture of mild impatience. "You only give me ten minutes. If I am to put my case before you, Mr Carrados, we cannot fence with phrases.... To-day you have had an exceptional opportunity of penetrating into our mode of life. You will, I do not doubt, have summed up our perpetual indebtedness and the easy credit that our connexion procures; Stephanie's social ambitions and expensive popularity; her utterly extravagant incapacity to see any other possible existence; and my tacit acquiescence. You will, I know, have correctly gauged her irresponsible, neurotic temperament, and judged the result of it in conflict with my own. What possibly has escaped you, for in society one has to disguise these things, is that I still love my wife. "When you dare not trust the soundness of your reins you do not try to pull up a bolting horse. For three years I have endeavoured to guide Stephanie round awkward comers with as little visible restraint as possible. When we differ over any project upon which she has set her heart Stephanie has one strong argument." "That you no longer love her?" "Well, perhaps; but more forcibly expressed. She rushes to the top of the building--there are six floors, Mr Carrados, and we are on the second--and climbing on to the banister she announces her intention of throwing herself down into the basement. In the meanwhile I have followed her and drag her back again. One day I shall stay where I am and let her do as she intends." "I hope not," said Carrados gravely. "Oh, don't be concerned. She will then climb back herself. But it will mark an epoch. It was by that threat that she obtained my acquiescence to this scheme--that and the certainty that she would otherwise go on without me. But I had no intention of allowing her to land herself--to say nothing of us both--behind the bars of a prison if I could help it. And, above all, I wished to cure her of her fatuous delusion that she is clever, in the hope that she may then give up being foolish. "To fail her on the occasion was merely to postpone the attempt. I conceived the idea of seeming to cooperate and at the same time involving us in what appeared to be a clever counter-fraud. The thought of the real loss will perhaps have a good effect; the publicity will certainly prevent her from daring a second 'theft.' A sordid story, Mr Carrados," he concluded. "Do not forget your cigarette-case in reality." The paternal shake of Carrados's head over the recital was neutralized by his benevolent smile. "Yes, yes," he said. "I think we can classify you, Mr Straithwaite. One point--the glove?" "That was an afterthought. I had arranged the whole story and the first note was to be brought to me by an attendant. Then, on my way, in my overcoat pocket I discovered a pair of Stephanie's gloves which she had asked me to carry the day before. The suggestion flashed--how much more convincing if I could arrange for her to seem to drop the writing in that way. As she said, the next box _was_ empty; I merely took possession of it for a few minutes and quietly drew across one of her gloves. And that reminds me--of course there was nothing in it, but your interest in them made me rather nervous." Carrados laughed outright. Then he stood up and held out his hand. "Good-night, Mr Straithwaite," he said, with real friendliness. "Let me give you the quaker's advice: Don't attempt another conspiracy--but if you do, don't produce a 'pair' of gloves of which one is still suggestive of scent, and the other identifiable with eucalyptus!" "Oh----!" said Straithwaite. "Quite so. But at all hazard suppress a second pair that has the same peculiarity. Think over what it must mean. Good-bye." Twelve minutes later Mr Carlyle was called to the telephone. "It is eight-fifty-five and I am at Charing Cross," said a voice he knew. "If you want local colour contrive an excuse to be with Markham when the first post arrives to-morrow." A few more words followed, and an affectionate valediction. "One moment, my dear Max, one moment. Do I understand you to say that you will post me on the report of the case from Dover?" "No, Louis," replied Carrados, with cryptic discrimination. "I only said that I will post you on _a_ report of the case from Dover." THE LAST EXPLOIT OF HARRY THE ACTOR The one insignificant fact upon which turned the following incident in the joint experiences of Mr Carlyle and Max Carrados was merely this: that having called upon his friend just at the moment when the private detective was on the point of leaving his office to go to the safe deposit in Lucas Street, Piccadilly, the blind amateur accompanied him, and for ten minutes amused himself by sitting quite quietly among the palms in the centre of the circular hall while Mr Carlyle was occupied with his deed-box in one of the little compartments provided for the purpose. The Lucas Street depository was then (it has since been converted into a picture palace) generally accepted as being one of the strongest places in London. The front of the building was constructed to represent a gigantic safe door, and under the colloquial designation of "The Safe" the place had passed into a synonym for all that was secure and impregnable. Half of the marketable securities in the west of London were popularly reported to have seen the inside of its coffers at one time or another, together with the same generous proportion of family jewels. However exaggerated an estimate this might be, the substratum of truth was solid and auriferous enough to dazzle the imagination. When ordinary safes were being carried bodily away with impunity or ingeniously fused open by the scientifically equipped cracksman, nervous bond-holders turned with relief to the attractions of an establishment whose modest claim was summed up in its telegraphic address: "Impregnable." To it went also the jewel-case between the lady's social engagements, and when in due course "the family" journeyed north--or south, east or west--whenever, in short, the London house was closed, its capacious storerooms received the plate-chest as an established custom. Not a few traders also--jewellers, financiers, dealers in pictures, antiques and costly bijouterie, for instance--constantly used its facilities for any stock that they did not requite immediately to hand. There was only one entrance to the place, an exaggerated keyhole, to carry out the similitude of the safe-door alluded to. The ground floor was occupied by the ordinary offices of the company; all the strong-rooms and safes lay in the steel-cased basement. This was reached both by a lift and by a flight of steps. In either case the visitor found before him a grille of massive proportions. Behind its bars stood a formidable commissionaire who never left his post, his sole duty being to open and close the grille to arriving and departing clients. Beyond this, a short passage led into the round central hall where Carrados was waiting. From this part, other passages radiated off to the vaults and strong-rooms, each one barred from the hall by a grille scarcely less ponderous than the first one. The doors of the various private rooms put at the disposal of the company's clients, and that of the manager's office, filled the wall-space between the radiating passages. Everything was very quiet, everything looked very bright, and everything seemed hopelessly impregnable. "But I wonder?" ran Carrados's dubious reflection; as he reached this point. "Sorry to have kept you so long, my dear Max," broke in Mr Carlyle's crisp voice. He had emerged from his compartment and was crossing the hall, deed-box in hand. "Another minute and I will be with you." Carrados smiled and nodded and resumed his former expression, which was merely that of an uninterested gentleman waiting patiently for another. It is something of an attainment to watch closely without betraying undue curiosity, but others of the senses--hearing and smelling, for instance--can be keenly engaged while the observer possibly has the appearance of falling asleep. "Now," announced Mr Carlyle, returning briskly to his friend's chair, and drawing on his grey suede gloves. "You are in no particular hurry?" "No," admitted the professional man, with the slowness of mild surprise. "Not at all. What do you propose?" "It is very pleasant here," replied Carrados tranquilly. "Very cool and restful with this armoured steel between us and the dust and scurry of the hot July afternoon above. I propose remaining here for a few minutes longer." "Certainly," agreed Mr Carlyle, taking the nearest chair and eyeing Carrados as though he had a shrewd suspicion of something more than met the ear. "I believe some very interesting people rent safes here. We may encounter a bishop, or a winning jockey, or even a musical comedy actress. Unfortunately it seems to be rather a slack time." "Two men came down while you were in your cubicle," remarked Carrados casually. "The first took the lift. I imagine that he was a middle-aged, rather portly man. He carried a stick, wore a silk hat, and used spectacles for close sight. The other came by the stairway. I infer that he arrived at the top immediately after the lift had gone. He ran down the steps, so that the two were admitted at the same time, but the second man, though the more active of the pair, hung back for a moment in the passage and the portly one was the first to go to his safe." Mr Carlyle's knowing look expressed: "Go on, my friend; you are coming to something." But he merely contributed an encouraging "Yes?" "When you emerged just now our second man quietly opened the door of his pen a fraction. Doubtless he looked out. Then he closed it as quietly again. You were not his man, Louis." "I am grateful," said Mr Carlyle expressively. "What next, Louis?" "That is all; they are still closeted." Both were silent for a moment. Mr Carlyle's feeling was one of unconfessed perplexity. So far the incident was utterly trivial in his eyes; but he knew that the trifles which appeared significant to Max had a way of standing out like signposts when the time came to look back over an episode. Carrados's sightless faculties seemed indeed to keep him just a move ahead as the game progressed. "Is there really anything in it, Max?" he asked at length. "Who can say?" replied Carrados. "At least we may wait to see them go. Those tin deed-boxes now. There is one to each safe, I think?" "Yes, so I imagine. The practice is to carry the box to your private lair and there unlock it and do your business. Then you lock it up again and take it back to your safe." "Steady! our first man," whispered Carrados hurriedly. "Here, look at this with me." He opened a paper--a prospectus--which he pulled from his pocket, and they affected to study its contents together. "You were about right, my friend," muttered Mr Carlyle, pointing to a paragraph of assumed interest. "Hat, stick and spectacles. He is a clean-shaven, pink-faced old boy. I believe--yes, I know the man by sight. He is a bookmaker in a large way, I am told." "Here comes the other," whispered Carrados. The bookmaker passed across the hall, joined on his way by the manager whose duty it was to counterlock the safe, and disappeared along one of the passages. The second man sauntered up and down, waiting his turn. Mr Carlyle reported his movements in an undertone and described him. He was a younger man than the other, of medium height, and passably well dressed in a quiet lounge suit, green Alpine hat and brown shoes. By the time the detective had reached his wavy chestnut hair, large and rather ragged moustache, and sandy, freckled complexion, the first man had completed his business and was leaving the place. "It isn't an exchange lay, at all events," said Mr Carlyle. "His inner case is only half the size of the other and couldn't possibly be substituted." "Come up now," said Carrados, rising. "There is nothing more to be learned down here." They requisitioned the lift and on the steps outside the gigantic keyhole stood for a few minutes discussing an investment as a couple of trustees or a lawyer and a client who were parting there might do. Fifty yards away, a very large silk hat with a very curly brim marked the progress of the bookmaker towards Piccadilly. The lift in the hall behind them swirled up again and the gate clashed. The second man walked leisurely out and sauntered away without a backward glance. "He has gone in the opposite direction," exclaimed Mr Carlyle, rather blankly. "It isn't the 'lame goat' nor the 'follow-me-on,' nor even the homely but efficacious sand-bag." "What colour were his eyes?" asked Carrados. "Upon my word, I never noticed," admitted the other. "Parkinson would have noticed," was the severe comment. "I am not Parkinson," retorted Mr Carlyle, with asperity, "and, strictly as one dear friend to another, Max, permit me to add, that while cherishing an unbounded admiration for your remarkable gifts, I have the strongest suspicion that the whole incident is a ridiculous mare's nest, bred in the fantastic imagination of an enthusiastic criminologist." Mr Carrados received this outburst with the utmost benignity. "Come and have a coffee, Louis," he suggested. "Mehmed's is only a street away." Mehmed proved to be a cosmopolitan gentleman from Mocha whose shop resembled a house from the outside and an Oriental divan when one was within. A turbaned Arab placed cigarettes and cups of coffee spiced with saffron before the customers, gave salaam and withdrew. "You know, my dear chap," continued Mr Carlyle, sipping his black coffee and wondering privately whether it was really very good or very bad, "speaking quite seriously, the one fishy detail--our ginger friend's watching for the other to leave--may be open to a dozen very innocent explanations." "So innocent that to-morrow I intend taking a safe myself." "You think that everything is all right?" "On the contrary, I am convinced that something is very wrong." "Then why----?" "I shall keep nothing there, but it will give me the _entrée_. I should advise you, Louis, in the first place to empty your safe with all possible speed, and in the second to leave your business card on the manager." Mr Carlyle pushed his cup away, convinced now that the coffee was really very bad. "But, my dear Max, the place--'The Safe'--is impregnable!" "When I was in the States, three years ago, the head porter at one hotel took pains to impress on me that the building was absolutely fireproof. I at once had my things taken off to another hotel. Two weeks later the first place was burnt out. It _was_ fireproof, I believe, but of course the furniture and the fittings were not and the walls gave way." "Very ingenious," admitted Mr Carlyle, "but why did you really go? You know you can't humbug me with your superhuman sixth sense, my friend." Carrados smiled pleasantly, thereby encouraging the watchful attendant to draw near and replenish their tiny cups. "Perhaps," replied the blind man, "because so many careless people were satisfied that it was fireproof." "Ah-ha, there you are--the greater the confidence the greater the risk. But only if your self-confidence results in carelessness. Now do you know how this place is secured, Max?" "I am told that they lock the door at night," replied Carrados, with bland malice. "And hide the key under the mat to be ready for the first arrival in the morning," crowed Mr Carlyle, in the same playful spirit. "Dear old chap! Well, let me tell you----" "That force is out of the question. Quite so," admitted his friend. "That simplifies the argument. Let us consider fraud. There again the precautions are so rigid that many people pronounce the forms a nuisance. I confess that I do not. I regard them as a means of protecting my own property and I cheerfully sign my name and give my password, which the manager compares with his record-book before he releases the first lock of my safe. The signature is burned before my eyes in a sort of crucible there, the password is of my own choosing and is written only in a book that no one but the manager ever sees, and my key is the sole one in existence." "No duplicate or master-key?" "Neither. If a key is lost it takes a skilful mechanic half-a-day to cut his way in. Then you must remember that clients of a safe-deposit are not multitudinous. All are known more or less by sight to the officials there, and a stranger would receive close attention. Now, Max, by what combination of circumstances is a rogue to know my password, to be able to forge my signature, to possess himself of my key, and to resemble me personally? And, finally, how is he possibly to determine beforehand whether there is anything in my safe to repay so elaborate a plant?" Mr Carlyle concluded in triumph and was so carried away by the strength of his position that he drank off the contents of his second cup before he realized what he was doing. "At the hotel I just spoke of," replied Carrados, "there was an attendant whose one duty in case of alarm was to secure three iron doors. On the night of the fire he had a bad attack of toothache and slipped away for just a quarter of an hour to have the thing out. There was a most up-to-date system of automatic fire alarm; it had been tested only the day before and the electrician, finding some part not absolutely to his satisfaction, had taken it away and not had time to replace it. The night watchman, it turned out, had received leave to present himself a couple of hours later on that particular night, and the hotel fireman, whose duties he took over, had missed being notified. Lastly, there was a big riverside blaze at the same time and all the engines were down at the other end of the city." Mr Carlyle committed himself to a dubious monosyllable. Carrados leaned forward a little. "All these circumstances formed a coincidence of pure chance. Is it not conceivable, Louis, that an even more remarkable series might be brought about by design?" "Our tawny friend?" "Possibly. Only he was not really tawny." Mr Carlyle's easy attitude suddenly stiffened into rigid attention. "He wore a false moustache." "He wore a false moustache!" repeated the amazed gentleman. "And you cannot see! No, really, Max, this is beyond the limit!" "If only you would not trust your dear, blundering old eyes so implicitly you would get nearer that limit yourself," retorted Carrados. "The man carried a five-yard aura of spirit gum, emphasized by a warm, perspiring skin. That inevitably suggested one thing. I looked for further evidence of making-up and found it--these preparations all smell. The hair you described was characteristically that of a wig--worn long to hide the joining and made wavy to minimize the length. All these things are trifles. As yet we have not gone beyond the initial stage of suspicion. I will tell you another trifle. When this man retired to a compartment with his deed-box, he never even opened it. Possibly it contains a brick and a newspaper. He is only watching." "Watching the bookmaker." "True, but it may go far wider than that. Everything points to a plot of careful elaboration. Still, if you are satisfied----" "I am quite satisfied," replied Mr Carlyle gallantly. "I regard 'The Safe' almost as a national institution, and as such I have an implicit faith in its precautions against every kind of force or fraud." So far Mr Carlyle's attitude had been suggestive of a rock, but at this point he took out his watch, hummed a little to pass the time, consulted his watch again, and continued: "I am afraid that there were one or two papers which I overlooked. It would perhaps save me coming again to-morrow if I went back now----" "Quite so," acquiesced Carrados, with perfect gravity. "I will wait for you." For twenty minutes he sat there, drinking an occasional tiny cup of boiled coffee and to all appearance placidly enjoying the quaint atmosphere which Mr Mehmed had contrived to transplant from the shore of the Persian Gulf. At the end of that period Carlyle returned, politely effusive about the time he had kept his friend waiting but otherwise bland and unassailable. Anyone with eyes might have noticed that he carried a parcel of about the same size and dimensions as the deed-box that fitted his safe. The next day Carrados presented himself at the safe-deposit as an intending renter. The manager showed him over the vaults and strong-rooms, explaining the various precautions taken to render the guile or force of man impotent: the strength of the chilled-steel walls, the casing of electricity-resisting concrete, the stupendous isolation of the whole inner fabric on metal pillars so that the watchman, while inside the building, could walk above, below, and all round the outer walls of what was really--although it bore no actual relationship to the advertising device of the front--a monstrous safe; and, finally, the arrangement which would enable the basement to be flooded with steam within three minutes of an alarm. These details were public property. "The Safe" was a showplace and its directors held that no harm could come of displaying a strong hand. Accompanied by the observant eyes of Parkinson, Carrados gave an adventurous but not a hopeful attention to these particulars. Submitting the problem of the tawny man to his own ingenuity, he was constantly putting before himself the question: How shall I set about robbing this place? and he had already dismissed force as impracticable. Nor, when it came to the consideration of fraud, did the simple but effective safeguards which Mr Carlyle had specified seem to offer any loophole. "As I am blind I may as well sign in the book," he suggested, when the manager passed to him a gummed slip for the purpose. The precaution against one acquiring particulars of another client might well be deemed superfluous in his case. But the manager did not fall into the trap. "It is our invariable rule in all cases, sir," he replied courteously. "What word will you take?" Parkinson, it may be said, had been left in the hall. "Suppose I happen to forget it? How do we proceed?" "In that case I am afraid that I might have to trouble you to establish your identity," the manager explained. "It rarely happens." "Then we will say 'Conspiracy.'" The word was written down and the book closed. "Here is your key, sir. If you will allow me--your key-ring----" A week went by and Carrados was no nearer the absolute solution of the problem he had set himself. He had, indeed, evolved several ways by which the contents of the safes might be reached, some simple and desperate, hanging on the razor-edge of chance to fall this way or that; others more elaborate, safer on the whole, but more liable to break down at some point of their ingenious intricacy. And setting aside complicity on the part of the manager--a condition that Carrados had satisfied himself did not exist--they all depended on a relaxation of the forms by which security was assured. Carrados continued to have several occasions to visit the safe during the week, and he "watched" with a quiet persistence that was deadly in its scope. But from beginning to end there was no indication of slackness in the business-like methods of the place; nor during any of his visits did the "tawny man" appear in that or any other disguise. Another week passed; Mr Carlyle was becoming inexpressibly waggish, and Carrados himself, although he did not abate a jot of his conviction, was compelled to bend to the realities of the situation. The manager, with the obstinacy of a conscientious man who had become obsessed with the pervading note of security, excused himself from discussing abstract methods of fraud. Carrados was not in a position to formulate a detailed charge; he withdrew from active investigation, content to await his time. It came, to be precise, on a certain Friday morning, seventeen days after his first visit to "The Safe." Returning late on the Thursday night, he was informed that a man giving the name of Draycott had called to see him. Apparently the matter had been of some importance to the visitor for he had returned three hours later on the chance of finding Mr Carrados in. Disappointed in this, he had left a note. Carrados cut open the envelope and ran a finger along the following words:-- "DEAR SIR,--I have to-day consulted Mr Louis Carlyle, who thinks that you would like to see me. I will call again in the morning, say at nine o'clock. If this is too soon or otherwise inconvenient I entreat you to leave a message fixing as early an hour as possible. Yours faithfully, HERBERT DRAYCOTT." "_P.S._--I should add that I am the renter of a safe at the Lucas Street depository. H. D." A description of Mr Draycott made it clear that he was not the West-End bookmaker. The caller, the servant explained, was a thin, wiry, keen-faced man. Carrados felt agreeably interested in this development, which seemed to justify his suspicion of a plot. At five minutes to nine the next morning Mr Draycott again presented himself. "Very good of you to see me so soon, sir," he apologized, on Carrados at once receiving him. "I don't know much of English ways--I'm an Australian--and I was afraid it might be too early." "You could have made it a couple of hours earlier as far as I am concerned," replied Carrados. "Or you either for that matter, I imagine," he added, "for I don't think that you slept much last night." "I didn't sleep at all last night," corrected Mr Draycott. "But it's strange that you should have seen that. I understood from Mr Carlyle that you--excuse me if I am mistaken, sir--but I understood that you were blind." Carrados laughed his admission lightly. "Oh yes," he said. "But never mind that. What is the trouble?" "I'm afraid it means more than just trouble for me, Mr Carrados." The man had steady, half-closed eyes, with the suggestion of depth which one notices in the eyes of those whose business it is to look out over great expanses of land or water; they were turned towards Carrados's face with quiet resignation in their frankness now. "I'm afraid it spells disaster. I am a working engineer from the Mount Magdalena district of Coolgardie. I don't want to take up your time with outside details so I will only say that about two years ago I had an opportunity of acquiring a share in a very promising claim--gold, you understand, both reef and alluvial. As the work went on I put more and more into the undertaking--you couldn't call it a venture by that time. The results were good, better than we had dared to expect, but from one cause and another the expenses were terrible. We saw that it was a bigger thing than we had bargained for and we admitted that we must get outside help." So far Mr Draycott's narrative had proceeded smoothly enough under the influence of the quiet despair that had come over the man. But at this point a sudden recollection of his position swept him into a frenzy of bitterness. "Oh, what the blazes is the good of going over all this again!" he broke out. "What can you or anyone else do anyhow? I've been robbed, rooked, cleared out of everything I possess," and tormented by recollections and by the impotence of his rage the unfortunate engineer beat the oak table with the back of his hand until his knuckles bled. Carrados waited until the fury had passed. "Continue, if you please, Mr Draycott," he said. "Just what you thought it best to tell me is just what I want to know." "I'm sorry, sir," apologized the man, colouring under his tanned skin. "I ought to be able to control myself better. But this business has shaken me. Three times last night I looked down the barrel of my revolver, and three times I threw it away.... Well, we arranged that I should come to London to interest some financiers in the property. We might have done it locally or in Perth, to be sure, but then, don't you see, they would have wanted to get control. Six weeks ago I landed here. I brought with me specimens of the quartz and good samples of extracted gold, dust and nuggets, the clearing up of several weeks' working, about two hundred and forty ounces in all. That includes the Magdalena Lodestar, our lucky nugget, a lump weighing just under seven pounds of pure gold. "I had seen an advertisement of this Lucas Street safe-deposit and it seemed just the thing I wanted. Besides the gold, I had all the papers to do with the claims--plans, reports, receipts, licences and so on. Then when I cashed my letter of credit I had about one hundred and fifty pounds in notes. Of course I could have left everything at a bank but it was more convenient to have it, as it were, in my own safe, to get at any time, and to have a private room that I could take any gentlemen to. I hadn't a suspicion that anything could be wrong. Negotiations hung on in several quarters--it's a bad time to do business here, I find. Then, yesterday, I wanted something. I went to Lucas Street, as I had done half-a-dozen times before, opened my safe, and had the inner case carried to a room.... Mr Carrados, it was empty!" "Quite empty?" "No." He laughed bitterly. "At the bottom was a sheet of wrapper paper. I recognized it as a piece I had left there in case I wanted to make up a parcel. But for that I should have been convinced that I had somehow opened the wrong safe. That was my first idea." "It cannot be done." "So I understand, sir. And, then, there was the paper with my name written on it in the empty tin. I was dazed; it seemed impossible. I think I stood there without moving for minutes--it was more like hours. Then I closed the tin box again, took it back, locked up the safe and came out." "Without notifying anything wrong?" "Yes, Mr Carrados." The steady blue eyes regarded him with pained thoughtfulness. "You see, I reckoned it out in that time that it must be someone about the place who had done it." "You were wrong," said Carrados. "So Mr Carlyle seemed to think. I only knew that the key had never been out of my possession and I had told no one of the password. Well, it did come over me rather like cold water down the neck, that there was I alone in the strongest dungeon in London and not a living soul knew where I was." "Possibly a sort of up-to-date Sweeney Todd's?" "I'd heard of such things in London," admitted Draycott. "Anyway, I got out. It was a mistake; I see it now. Who is to believe me as it is--it sounds a sort of unlikely tale. And how do they come to pick on me? to know what I had? I don't drink, or open my mouth, or hell round. It beats me." "They didn't pick on you--you picked on them," replied Carrados. "Never mind how; you'll be believed all right. But as for getting anything back----" The unfinished sentence confirmed Mr Draycott in his gloomiest anticipations. "I have the numbers of the notes," he suggested, with an attempt at hopefulness. "They can be stopped, I take it?" "Stopped? Yes," admitted Carrados. "And what does that amount to? The banks and the police stations will be notified and every little public-house between here and Land's End will change one for the scribbling of 'John Jones' across the back. No, Mr Draycott, it's awkward, I dare say, but you must make up your mind to wait until you can get fresh supplies from home. Where are you staying?" Draycott hesitated. "I have been at the Abbotsford, in Bloomsbury, up to now," he said, with some embarrassment. "The fact is, Mr Carrados, I think I ought to have told you how I was placed before consulting you, because I--I see no prospect of being able to pay my way. Knowing that I had plenty in the safe, I had run it rather close. I went chiefly yesterday to get some notes. I have a week's hotel bill in my pocket, and"--he glanced down at his trousers--"I've ordered one or two other things unfortunately." "That will be a matter of time, doubtless," suggested the other encouragingly. Instead of replying Draycott suddenly dropped his arms on to the table and buried his face between them. A minute passed in silence. "It's no good, Mr Carrados," he said, when he was able to speak; "I can't meet it. Say what you like, I simply can't tell those chaps that I've lost everything we had and ask them to send me more. They couldn't do it if I did. Understand, sir. The mine is a valuable one; we have the greatest faith in it, but it has gone beyond our depth. The three of us have put everything we own into it. While I am here they are doing labourers' work for a wage, just to keep going ... waiting, oh, my God! waiting for good news from me!" Carrados walked round the table to his desk and wrote. Then, without a word, he held out a paper to his visitor. "What's this?" demanded Draycott, in bewilderment. "It's--it's a cheque for a hundred pounds." "It will carry you on," explained Carrados imperturbably. "A man like you isn't going to throw up the sponge for this set-back. Cable to your partners that you require copies of all the papers at once. They'll manage it, never fear. The gold ... must go. Write fully by the next mail. Tell them everything and add that in spite of all you feel that you are nearer success than ever." Mr Draycott folded the cheque with thoughtful deliberation and put it carefully away in his pocket-book. "I don't know whether you've guessed as much, sir," he said in a queer voice, "but I think that you've saved a man's life to-day. It's not the money, it's the encouragement ... and faith. If you could see you'd know better than I can say how I feel about it." Carrados laughed quietly. It always amused him to have people explain how much more he would learn if he had eyes. "Then we'll go on to Lucas Street and give the manager the shock of his life," was all he said. "Come, Mr Draycott, I have already rung up the car." But, as it happened, another instrument had been destined to apply that stimulating experience to the manager. As they stepped out of the car opposite "The Safe" a taxicab drew up and Mr Carlyle's alert and cheery voice hailed them. "A moment, Max," he called, turning to settle with his driver, a transaction that he invested with an air of dignified urbanity which almost made up for any small pecuniary disappointment that may have accompanied it. "This is indeed fortunate. Let us compare notes for a moment. I have just received an almost imploring message from the manager to come at once. I assumed that it was the affair of our colonial friend here, but he went on to mention Professor Holmfast Bulge. Can it really be possible that he also has made a similar discovery?" "What did the manager say?" asked Carrados. "He was practically incoherent, but I really think it must be so. What have you done?" "Nothing," replied Carrados. He turned his back on "The Safe" and appeared to be regarding the other side of the street. "There is a tobacconist's shop directly opposite?" "There is." "What do they sell on the first floor?" "Possibly they sell 'Rubbo.' I hazard the suggestion from the legend 'Rub in Rubbo for Everything' which embellishes each window." "The windows are frosted?" "They are, to half-way up, mysterious man." Carrados walked back to his motor car. "While we are away, Parkinson, go across and buy a tin, bottle, box or packet of 'Rubbo.'" "What is 'Rubbo,' Max?" chirped Mr Carlyle with insatiable curiosity. "So far we do not know. When Parkinson gets some, Louis, you shall be the one to try it." They descended into the basement and were passed in by the grille-keeper, whose manner betrayed a discreet consciousness of something in the air. It was unnecessary to speculate why. In the distance, muffled by the armoured passages, an authoritative voice boomed like a sonorous bell heard under water. "What, however, are the facts?" it was demanding, with the causticity of baffled helplessness. "I am assured that there is no other key in existence; yet my safe has been unlocked. I am given to understand that without the password it would be impossible for an unauthorized person to tamper with my property. My password, deliberately chosen, is 'anthropophaginian,' sir. Is it one that is familiarly on the lips of the criminal classes? But my safe is empty! What is the explanation? Who are the guilty persons? What is being done? Where are the police?" "If you consider that the proper course to adopt is to stand on the doorstep and beckon in the first constable who happens to pass, permit me to say, sir, that I differ from you," retorted the distracted manager. "You may rely on everything possible being done to clear up the mystery. As I told you, I have already telephoned for a capable private detective and for one of my directors." "But that is not enough," insisted the professor angrily. "Will one mere private detective restore my £6000 Japanese 4-1/2 per cent. bearer bonds? Is the return of my irreplaceable notes on 'Polyphyletic Bridal Customs among the mid-Pleistocene Cave Men' to depend on a solitary director? I demand that the police shall be called in--as many as are available. Let Scotland Yard be set in motion. A searching inquiry must be made. I have only been a user of your precious establishment for six months, and this is the result." "There you hold the key of the mystery, Professor Bulge," interposed Carrados quietly. "Who is this, sir?" demanded the exasperated professor at large. "Permit me," explained Mr Carlyle, with bland assurance. "I am Louis Carlyle, of Bampton Street. This gentleman is Mr Max Carrados, the eminent amateur specialist in crime." "I shall be thankful for any assistance towards elucidating this appalling business," condescended the professor sonorously. "Let me put you in possession of the facts----" "Perhaps if we went into your room," suggested Carrados to the manager, "we should be less liable to interruption." "Quite so; quite so," boomed the professor, accepting the proposal on everyone else's behalf. "The facts, sir, are these: I am the unfortunate possessor of a safe here, in which, a few months ago, I deposited--among less important matter--sixty bearer bonds of the Japanese Imperial Loan--the bulk of my small fortune--and the manuscript of an important projected work on 'Polyphyletic Bridal Customs among the mid-Pleistocene Cave Men.' To-day I came to detach the coupons which fall due on the fifteenth, to pay them into my bank a week in advance, in accordance with my custom. What do I find? I find the safe locked and apparently intact, as when I last saw it a month ago. But it is far from being intact, sir. It has been opened; ransacked, cleared out. Not a single bond; not a scrap of paper remains." It was obvious that the manager's temperature had been rising during the latter part of this speech and now he boiled over. "Pardon my flatly contradicting you, Professor Bulge. You have again referred to your visit here a month ago as your last. You will bear witness of that, gentlemen. When I inform you that the professor had access to his safe as recently as on Monday last you will recognize the importance that the statement may assume." The professor glared across the room like an infuriated animal, a comparison heightened by his notoriously hircine appearance. "How dare you contradict me, sir!" he cried, slapping the table sharply with his open hand. "I was not here on Monday." The manager shrugged his shoulders coldly. "You forget that the attendants also saw you," he remarked. "Cannot we trust our own eyes?" "A common assumption, yet not always a strictly reliable one," insinuated Carrados softly. "I cannot be mistaken." "Then can you tell me, without looking, what colour Professor Bulge's eyes are?" There was a curious and expectant silence for a minute. The professor turned his back on the manager and the manager passed from thoughtfulness to embarrassment. "I really do not know, Mr Carrados," he declared loftily at last. "I do not refer to mere trifles like that." "Then you can be mistaken," replied Carrados mildly yet with decision. "But the ample hair, the venerable flowing beard, the prominent nose and heavy eyebrows----" "These are just the striking points that are most easily counterfeited. They 'take the eye.' If you would ensure yourself against deception, learn rather to observe the eye itself, and particularly the spots on it, the shape of the fingernails, the set of the ears. These things cannot be simulated." "You seriously suggest that the man was not Professor Bulge--that he was an impostor?" "The conclusion is inevitable. Where were you on Monday, Professor?" "I was on a short lecturing tour in the Midlands. On Saturday I was in Nottingham. On Monday in Birmingham. I did not return to London until yesterday." Carrados turned to the manager again and indicated Draycott, who so far had remained in the background. "And this gentleman? Did he by any chance come here on Monday?" "He did not, Mr Carrados. But I gave him access to his safe on Tuesday afternoon and again yesterday." Draycott shook his head sadly. "Yesterday I found it empty," he said. "And all Tuesday afternoon I was at Brighton, trying to see a gentleman on business." The manager sat down very suddenly. "Good God, another!" he exclaimed faintly. "I am afraid the list is only beginning," said Carrados. "We must go through your renters' book." The manager roused himself to protest. "That cannot be done. No one but myself or my deputy ever sees the book. It would be--unprecedented." "The circumstances are unprecedented," replied Carrados. "If any difficulties are placed in the way of these gentlemen's investigations, I shall make it my duty to bring the facts before the Home Secretary," announced the professor; speaking up to the ceiling with the voice of a brazen trumpet. Carrados raised a deprecating hand. "May I make a suggestion?" he remarked. "Now; I am blind. If, therefore----?" "Very well," acquiesced the manager. "But I must request the others to withdraw." For five minutes Carrados followed the list of safe-renters as the manager read them to him. Sometimes he stopped the catalogue to reflect a moment; now and then he brushed a finger-tip over a written signature and compared it with another. Occasionally a password interested him. But when the list came to an end he continued to look into space without any sign of enlightenment. "So much is perfectly clear and yet so much is incredible," he mused. "You insist that you alone have been in charge for the last six months?" "I have not been away a day this year." "Meals?" "I have my lunch sent in." "And this room could not be entered without your knowledge while you were about the place?" "It is impossible. The door is fitted with a powerful spring and a feather-touch self-acting lock. It cannot be left unlocked unless you deliberately prop it open." "And, with your knowledge, no one has had an opportunity of having access to this book?" "No," was the reply. Carrados stood up and began to put on his gloves. "Then I must decline to pursue my investigation any further," he said icily. "Why?" stammered the manager. "Because I have positive reason for believing that you are deceiving me." "Pray sit down, Mr Carrados. It is quite true that when you put the last question to me a circumstance rushed into my mind which--so far as the strict letter was concerned--might seem to demand 'Yes' instead of 'No.' But not in the spirit of your inquiry. It would be absurd to attach any importance to the incident I refer to." "That would be for me to judge." "You shall do so, Mr Carrados. I live at Windermere Mansions with my sister. A few months ago she got to know a married couple who had recently come to the opposite flat. The husband was a middle-aged, scholarly man who spent most of his time in the British Museum. His wife's tastes were different; she was much younger, brighter, gayer; a mere girl in fact, one of the most charming and unaffected I have ever met. My sister Amelia does not readily----" "Stop!" exclaimed Carrados. "A studious middle-aged man and a charming young wife! Be as brief as possible. If there is any chance it may turn on a matter of minutes at the ports. She came here, of course?" "Accompanied by her husband," replied the manager stiffly. "Mrs Scott had travelled and she had a hobby of taking photographs wherever she went. When my position accidentally came out one evening she was carried away by the novel idea of adding views of a safe-deposit to her collection--as enthusiastic as a child. There was no reason why she should not; the place has often been taken for advertising purposes." "She came, and brought her camera--under your very nose!" "I do not know what you mean by 'under my very nose.' She came with her husband one evening just about our closing time. She brought her camera, of course--quite a small affair." "And contrived to be in here alone?" "I take exception to the word 'contrived.' It--it happened. I sent out for some tea, and in the course----" "How long was she alone in here?" "Two or three minutes at the most. When I returned she was seated at my desk. That was what I referred to. The little rogue had put on my glasses and had got hold of a big book. We were great chums, and she delighted to mock me. I confess that I was startled--merely instinctively--to see that she had taken up this book, but the next moment I saw that she had it upside down." "Clever! She couldn't get it away in time. And the camera, with half-a-dozen of its specially sensitized films already snapped over the last few pages, by her side!" "That child!" "Yes. She is twenty-seven and has kicked hats off tall men's heads in every capital from Petersburg to Buenos Aires! Get through to Scotland Yard and ask if Inspector Beedel can come up." The manager breathed heavily through his nose. "To call in the police and publish everything would ruin this establishment--confidence would be gone. I cannot do it without further authority." "Then the professor certainly will." "Before you came I rang up the only director who is at present in town and gave him the facts as they then stood. Possibly he has arrived by this. If you will accompany me to the boardroom we will see." They went up to the floor above, Mr Carlyle joining them on the way. "Excuse me a moment," said the manager. Parkinson, who had been having an improving conversation with the hall porter on the subject of land values, approached. "I am sorry, sir," he reported, "but I was unable to procure any 'Rubbo.' The place appears to be shut up." "That is a pity; Mr Carlyle had set his heart on it." "Will you come this way, please?" said the manager, reappearing. In the boardroom they found a white-haired old gentleman who had obeyed the manager's behest from a sense of duty, and then remained in a distant corner of the empty room in the hope that he might be overlooked. He was amiably helpless and appeared to be deeply aware of it. "This is a very sad business, gentlemen," he said, in a whispering, confiding voice. "I am informed that you recommend calling in the Scotland Yard authorities. That would be a disastrous course for an institution that depends on the implicit confidence of the public." "It is the only course," replied Carrados. "The name of Mr Carrados is well known to us in connexion with a delicate case. Could you not carry this one through?" "It is impossible. A wide inquiry must be made. Every port will have to be watched. The police alone can do that." He threw a little significance into the next sentence. "I alone can put the police in the right way of doing it." "And you will do that, Mr Carrados?" Carrados smiled engagingly. He knew exactly what constituted the great attraction of his services. "My position is this," he explained. "So far my work has been entirely amateur. In that capacity I have averted one or two crimes, remedied an occasional injustice, and now and then been of service to my professional friend, Louis Carlyle. But there is no reason at all why I should serve a commercial firm in an ordinary affair of business for nothing. For any information I should require a fee, a quite nominal fee of, say, one hundred pounds." The director looked as though his faith in human nature had received a rude blow. "A hundred pounds would be a very large initial fee for a small firm like this, Mr Carrados," he remarked in a pained voice. "And that, of course, would be independent of Mr Carlyle's professional charges," added Carrados. "Is that sum contingent on any specific performance?" inquired the manager. "I do not mind making it conditional on my procuring for you, for the police to act on, a photograph and a description of the thief." The two officials conferred apart for a moment. Then the manager returned. "We will agree, Mr Carrados, on the understanding that these things are to be in our hands within two days. Failing that----" "No, no!" cried Mr Carlyle indignantly, but Carrados good-humouredly put him aside. "I will accept the condition in the same sporting spirit that inspires it. Within forty-eight hours or no pay. The cheque, of course, to be given immediately the goods are delivered?" "You may rely on that." Carrados took out his pocket-book, produced an envelope bearing an American stamp, and from it extracted an unmounted print. "Here is the photograph," he announced. "The man is called Ulysses K. Groom, but he is better known as 'Harry the Actor.' You will find the description written on the back." Five minutes later, when they were alone, Mr Carlyle expressed his opinion of the transaction. "You are an unmitigated humbug, Max," he said, "though an amiable one, I admit. But purely for your own private amusement you spring these things on people." "On the contrary," replied Carrados, "people spring these things on me." "Now this photograph. Why have I heard nothing of it before?" Carrados took out his watch and touched the fingers. "It is now three minutes to eleven. I received the photograph at twenty past eight." "Even then, an hour ago you assured me that you had done nothing." "Nor had I--so far as result went. Until the keystone of the edifice was wrung from the manager in his room, I was as far away from demonstrable certainty as ever." "So am I--as yet," hinted Mr Carlyle. "I am coming to that, Louis. I turn over the whole thing to you. The man has got two clear days' start and the chances are nine to one against catching him. We know everything, and the case has no further interest for me. But it is your business. Here is your material. "On that one occasion when the 'tawny' man crossed our path, I took from the first a rather more serious view of his scope and intention than you did. That same day I sent a cipher cable to Pierson of the New York service. I asked for news of any man of such and such a description--merely negative--who was known to have left the States; an educated man, expert in the use of disguises, audacious in his operations, and a specialist in 'dry' work among banks and strong-rooms." "Why the States, Max?" "That was a sighting shot on my part. I argued that he must be an English-speaking man. The smart and inventive turn of the modern Yank has made him a specialist in ingenious devices, straight or crooked. Unpickable locks and invincible lock-pickers, burglar-proof safes and safe-specializing burglars, come equally from the States. So I tried a very simple test. As we talked that day and the man walked past us, I dropped the words 'New York'--or, rather, 'Noo Y'rk'--in his hearing." "I know you did. He neither turned nor stopped." "He was that much on his guard; but into his step there came--though your poor old eyes could not see it, Louis--the 'psychological pause,' an absolute arrest of perhaps a fifth of a second; just as it would have done with you if the word 'London' had fallen on your ear in a distant land. However, the whys and the wherefores don't matter. Here is the essential story. "Eighteen months ago 'Harry the Actor' successfully looted the office safe of M'Kenkie, J. F. Higgs & Co.; of Cleveland, Ohio. He had just married a smart but very facile third-rate vaudeville actress--English by origin--and wanted money for the honeymoon. He got about five hundred pounds, and with that they came to Europe and stayed in London for some months. That period is marked by the Congreave Square post office burglary, you may remember. While studying such of the British institutions as most appealed to him, the 'Actor's' attention became fixed on this safe-deposit. Possibly the implied challenge contained in its telegraphic address grew on him until it became a point of professional honour with him to despoil it; at all events he was presumedly attracted by an undertaking that promised not only glory but very solid profit. The first part of the plot was, to the most skilful criminal 'impersonator' in the States, mere skittles. Spreading over those months he appeared at 'The Safe' in twelve different characters and rented twelve safes of different sizes. At the same time he made a thorough study of the methods of the place. As soon as possible he got the keys back again into legitimate use, having made duplicates for his own private ends, of course. Five he seems to have returned during his first stay; one was received later, with profuse apologies, by registered post; one was returned through a leading Berlin bank. Six months ago he made a flying visit here, purely to work off two more. One he kept from first to last, and the remaining couple he got in at the beginning of his second long residence here, three or four months ago. "This brings us to the serious part of the cool enterprise. He had funds from the Atlantic and South-Central Mail-car coup when he arrived here last April. He appears to have set up three establishments; a home, in the guise of an elderly scholar with a young wife, which, of course, was next door to our friend the manager; an observation point, over which he plastered the inscription 'Rub in Rubbo for Everything' as a reason for being; and, somewhere else, a dressing-room with essential conditions of two doors into different streets. "About six weeks ago he entered the last stage. Mrs Harry, with quite ridiculous ease, got photographs of the necessary page or two of the record-book. I don't doubt that for weeks before then everyone who entered the place had been observed, but the photographs linked them up with the actual men into whose hands the 'Actor's' old keys had passed--gave their names and addresses, the numbers of their safes, their passwords and signatures. The rest was easy." "Yes, by Jupiter; mere play for a man like that," agreed Mr Carlyle, with professional admiration. "He could contrive a dozen different occasions for studying the voice and manner and appearance of his victims. How much has he cleared?" "We can only speculate as yet. I have put my hand on seven doubtful callers on Monday and Tuesday last. Two others he had ignored for some reason; the remaining two safes had not been allotted. There is one point that raises an interesting speculation." "What is that, Max?" "The 'Actor' has one associate, a man known as 'Billy the Fondant,' but beyond that--with the exception of his wife, of course--he does not usually trust anyone. It is plain, however, that at least seven men must latterly have been kept under close observation. It has occurred to me----" "Yes, Max?" "I have wondered whether Harry has enlisted the innocent services of one or other of our clever private inquiry offices." "Scarcely," smiled the professional. "It would hardly pass muster." "Oh, I don't know. Mrs Harry, in the character of a jealous wife or a suspicious sweetheart, might reasonably----" Mr Carlyle's smile suddenly faded. "By Jupiter!" he exclaimed. "I remember----" "Yes, Louis?" prompted Carrados, with laughter in his voice. "I remember that I must telephone to a client before Beedel comes," concluded Mr Carlyle, rising in some haste. At the door he almost ran into the subdued director, who was wringing his hands in helpless protest at a new stroke of calamity. "Mr Carrados," wailed the poor old gentleman in a tremulous bleat, "Mr Carrados, there is another now--Sir Benjamin Gump. He insists on seeing me. You will not--you will not desert us?" "I should have to stay a week," replied Carrados briskly, "and I'm just off now. There will be a procession. Mr Carlyle will support you, I am sure." He nodded "Good-morning" straight into the eyes of each and found his way out with the astonishing certainty of movement that made so many forget his infirmity. Possibly he was not desirous of encountering Draycott's embarrassed gratitude again, for in less than a minute they heard the swirl of his departing car. "Never mind, my dear sir," Mr Carlyle assured his client, with impenetrable complacency. "Never mind. _I_ will remain instead. Perhaps I had better make myself known to Sir Benjamin at once." The director turned on him the pleading, trustful look of a cornered dormouse. "He is in the basement," he whispered. "I shall be in the boardroom--if necessary." Mr Carlyle had no difficulty in discovering the centre of interest in the basement. Sir Benjamin was expansive and reserved, bewildered and decisive, long-winded and short-tempered, each in turn and more or less all at once. He had already demanded the attention of the manager, Professor Bulge, Draycott and two underlings to his case and they were now involved in a babel of inutile reiteration. The inquiry agent was at once drawn into a circle of interrogation that he did his best to satisfy impressively while himself learning the new facts. The latest development was sufficiently astonishing. Less than an hour before Sir Benjamin had received a parcel by district messenger. It contained a jewel-case which ought at that moment to have been securely reposing in one of the deposit safes. Hastily snatching it open, the recipient's incredible forebodings were realized. It was empty--empty of jewels, that is to say, for, as if to add a sting to the blow, a neatly inscribed card had been placed inside, and on it the agitated baronet read the appropriate but at the moment rather gratuitous maxim: "Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth----" The card was passed round and all eyes demanded the expert's pronouncement. "'--where moth and rust doth corrupt and where thieves break through and steal.' H'm," read Mr Carlyle with weight. "This is a most important clue, Sir Benjamin----" "Hey, what? What's that?" exclaimed a voice from the other side of the hall. "Why, damme if I don't believe you've got another! Look at that, gentlemen; look at that. What's on, I say? Here now, come; give me my safe. I want to know where I am." It was the bookmaker who strode tempestuously in among them, flourishing before their faces a replica of the card that was in Mr Carlyle's hand. "Well, upon my soul this is most extraordinary," exclaimed that gentleman, comparing the two. "You have just received this, Mr--Mr Berge, isn't it?" "That's right, Berge--'Iceberg' on the course. Thank the Lord Harry, I can take my losses coolly enough, but this--this is a facer. Put into my hand half-an-hour ago inside an envelope that ought to be here and as safe as in the Bank of England. What's the game, I say? Here, Johnny, hurry and let me into my safe." Discipline and method had for the moment gone by the board. There was no suggestion of the boasted safeguards of the establishment. The manager added his voice to that of the client, and when the attendant did not at once appear he called again. "John, come and give Mr Berge access to his safe at once." "All right, sir," pleaded the harassed key-attendant; hurrying up with the burden of his own distraction. "There's a silly fathead got in what thinks this is a left-luggage office, so far as I can make out--a foreigner." "Never mind that now," replied the manager severely. "Mr Berge's safe: No. 01724." The attendant and Mr Berge went off together down one of the brilliant colonnaded vistas. One or two of the others who had caught the words glanced across and became aware of a strange figure that was drifting indecisively towards them. He was obviously an elderly German tourist of pronounced type--long-haired, spectacled, outrageously garbed and involved in the mental abstraction of his philosophical race. One hand was occupied with the manipulation of a pipe, as markedly Teutonic as its owner; the other grasped a carpet-bag that would have ensured an opening laugh to any low comedian. Quite impervious to the preoccupation of the group, the German made his way up to them and picked out the manager. "This was a safety deposit, _nicht wahr_?" "Quite so," acquiesced the manager loftily, "but just now----" "Your fellow was dense of gomprehension." The eyes behind the clumsy glasses wrinkled to a ponderous humour. "He forgot his own business. Now this goot bag----" Brought into fuller prominence, the carpet-bag revealed further details of its overburdened proportions. At one end a flannel shirt cuff protruded in limp dejection; at the other an ancient collar, with the grotesque attachment known as a "dickey," asserted its presence. No wonder the manager frowned his annoyance. "The Safe" was in low enough repute among its patrons at that moment without any burlesque interlude to its tragic hour. "Yes, yes," he whispered, attempting to lead the would-be depositor away, "but you are under a mistake. This is not----" "It was a safety deposit? Goot. Mine bag--I would deposit him in safety till the time of mine train. _Ja?_" "_Nein, nein!_" almost hissed the agonized official. "Go away, sir, go away! It isn't a cloakroom. John, let this gentleman out." The attendant and Mr Berge were returning from their quest. The inner box had been opened and there was no need to ask the result. The bookmaker was shaking his head like a baffled bull. "Gone, no effects," he shouted across the hall. "Lifted from 'The Safe,' by crumb!" To those who knew nothing of the method and operation of the fraud it seemed as if the financial security of the Capital was tottering. An amazed silence fell, and in it they heard the great grille door of the basement clang on the inopportune foreigner's departure. But, as if it was impossible to stand still on that morning of dire happenings, he was immediately succeeded by a dapper, keen-faced man in severe clerical attire who had been let in as the intruder passed out. "Canon Petersham!" exclaimed the professor, going forward to greet him. "My dear Professor Bulge!" reciprocated the canon. "You here! A most disquieting thing has happened to me. I must have my safe at once." He divided his attention between the manager and the professor as he monopolized them both. "A most disquieting and--and outrageous circumstance. My safe, please--yes, yes, Rev. Henry Noakes Petersham. I have just received by hand a box, a small box of no value but one that I _thought_, yes, I am convinced that it was the one, a box that was used to contain certain valuables of family interest which should at this moment be in my safe here. No. 7436? Very likely, very likely. Yes, here is my key. But not content with the disconcerting effect of that, professor, the box contained--and I protest that it's a most unseemly thing to quote _any_ text from the Bible in this way to a clergyman of my position--well, here it is. 'Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth----' Why, I have a dozen sermons of my own in my desk now on that very verse. I'm particularly partial to the very needful lesson that it teaches. And to apply it to _me_! It's monstrous!" "No. 7436, John," ordered the manager, with weary resignation. The attendant again led the way towards another armour-plated aisle. Smartly turning a corner, he stumbled over something, bit a profane exclamation in two, and looked back. "It's that bloomin' foreigner's old bag again," he explained across the place in aggrieved apology. "He left it here after all." "Take it upstairs and throw it out when you've finished," said the manager shortly. "Here, wait a minute," pondered John, in absent-minded familiarity. "Wait a minute. This is a funny go. There's a label on that wasn't here before. '_Why not look inside?_'" "'Why not look inside?'" repeated someone. "That's what it says." There was another puzzled silence. All were arrested by some intangible suggestion of a deeper mystery than they had yet touched. One by one they began to cross the hall with the conscious air of men who were not curious but thought that they might as well see. "Why, curse my crumpet," suddenly exploded Mr Berge, "if that ain't the same writing as these texts!" "By gad, but I believe you are right," assented Mr Carlyle. "Well, why not look inside?" The attendant, from his stooping posture, took the verdict of the ring of faces and in a trice tugged open the two buckles. The central fastening was not locked, and yielded to a touch. The flannel shirt, the weird collar and a few other garments in the nature of a "top-dressing" were flung out and John's hand plunged deeper.... Harry the Actor had lived up to his dramatic instinct. Nothing was wrapped up; nay, the rich booty had been deliberately opened out and displayed, as it were, so that the overturning of the bag, when John the keybearer in an access of riotous extravagance lifted it up and strewed its contents broadcast on the floor, was like the looting of a smuggler's den, or the realization of a speculator's dream, or the bursting of an Aladdin's cave, or something incredibly lavish and bizarre. Bank-notes fluttered down and lay about in all directions, relays of sovereigns rolled away like so much dross, bonds and scrip for thousands and tens of thousands clogged the downpouring stream of jewellery and unset gems. A yellow stone the size of a four-pound weight and twice as heavy dropped plump upon the canon's toes and sent him hopping and grimacing to the wall. A ruby-hilted kris cut across the manager's wrist as he strove to arrest the splendid rout. Still the miraculous cornucopia deluged the ground, with its pattering, ringing, bumping, crinkling, rolling, fluttering produce until, like the final tableau of some spectacular ballet, it ended with a golden rain that masked the details of the heap beneath a glittering veil of yellow sand. "My dust!" gasped Draycott. "My fivers, by golly!" ejaculated the bookmaker, initiating a plunge among the spoil. "My Japanese bonds, coupons and all, and--yes, even the manuscript of my work on 'Polyphyletic Bridal Customs among the mid-Pleistocene Cave Men.' Hah!" Something approaching a cachinnation of delight closed the professor's contribution to the pandemonium, and eyewitnesses afterwards declared that for a moment the dignified scientist stood on one foot in the opening movement of a can-can. "My wife's diamonds, thank heaven!" cried Sir Benjamin, with the air of a schoolboy who was very well out of a swishing. "But what does it mean?" demanded the bewildered canon. "Here are my family heirlooms--a few decent pearls, my grandfather's collection of camei and other trifles--but who----?" "Perhaps this offers some explanation," suggested Mr Carlyle, unpinning an envelope that had been secured to the lining of the bag. "It is addressed 'To Seven Rich Sinners.' Shall I read it for you?" For some reason the response was not unanimous, but it was sufficient. Mr Carlyle cut open the envelope. "MY DEAR FRIENDS,--Aren't you glad? Aren't you happy at this moment? Ah yes; but not with the true joy of regeneration that alone can bring lightness to the afflicted soul. Pause while there is yet time. Cast off the burden of your sinful lusts, for what shall it profit a man if he shall gain the whole world and lose his own soul? (Mark, chap. viii., v. 36.) "Oh, my friends, you have had an all-fired narrow squeak. Up till the Friday in last week I held your wealth in the hollow of my ungodly hand and rejoiced in my nefarious cunning, but on that day as I with my guilty female accomplice stood listening with worldly amusement to the testimony of a converted brother at a meeting of the Salvation Army on Clapham Common, the gospel light suddenly shone into our rebellious souls and then and there we found salvation. Hallelujah! "What we have done to complete the unrighteous scheme upon which we had laboured for months has only been for your own good, dear friends that you are, though as yet divided from us by your carnal lusts. Let this be a lesson to you. Sell all you have and give it to the poor--through the organization of the Salvation Army by preference--and thereby lay up for yourselves treasures where neither moth nor rust doth corrupt and where thieves do not break through and steal. (Matthew, chap, vi., v. 20.) "Yours in good works, "PRIVATE HENRY, THE SALVATIONIST. "_P.S._ (in haste).--I may as well inform you that no crib is really uncrackable, though the Cyrus J. Coy Co.'s Safe Deposit on West 24th Street, N.Y., comes nearest the kernel. And even that I could work to the bare rock if I took hold of the job with both hands--that is to say I could have done in my sinful days. As for you, I should recommend you to change your T. A. to 'Peanut.' "U. K. G." "There sounds a streak of the old Adam in that postscript, Mr Carlyle," whispered Inspector Beedel, who had just arrived in time to hear the letter read. THE TILLING SHAW MYSTERY "I will see Miss George now," assented Carrados. Parkinson retired and Greatorex looked round from his chair. The morning "clearing-up" was still in progress. "Shall I go?" he inquired. "Not unless the lady desires it. I don't know her at all." The secretary was not unobservant and he had profited from his association with Mr Carrados. Without more ado, he began to get his papers quietly together. The door opened and a girl of about twenty came eagerly yet half timorously into the room. Her eyes for a moment swept Carrados with an anxious scrutiny. Then, with a slight shade of disappointment, she noticed that they were not alone. "I have come direct from Oakshire to see you, Mr Carrados," she announced, in a quick, nervous voice that was evidently the outcome of a desperate resolution to be brave and explicit. "The matter is a dreadfully important one to me and I should very much prefer to tell it to you alone." There was no need for Carrados to turn towards his secretary; that discriminating young gentleman was already on his way. Miss George flashed him a shy look of thanks and filled in the moment with a timid survey of the room. "Is it something that you think I can help you with?" "I had hoped so. I had heard in a roundabout way of your wonderful power--ought I to tell you how--does it matter?" "Not in the least if it has nothing to do with the case," replied Carrados. "When this dreadful thing happened I instinctively thought of you. I felt sure that I ought to come and get you to help me at once. But I--I have very little money, Mr Carrados, only a few pounds, and I am not so childish as not to know that very clever men require large fees. Then when I got here my heart sank, for I saw at once from your house and position that what seemed little even to me would be ridiculous to you--that if you did help me it would be purely out of kindness of heart and generosity." "Suppose you tell me what the circumstances are," suggested Carrados cautiously. Then, to afford an opening, he added: "You have recently gone into mourning, I see." "See!" exclaimed the girl almost sharply. "Then you are not blind?" "Oh yes," he replied; "only I use the familiar expression, partly from custom, partly because it sounds unnecessarily pedantic to say, 'I deduce from certain observations.'" "I beg your pardon. I suppose I was startled not so much by the expression as by your knowledge. I ought to have been prepared. But I am already wasting your time and I came so determined to be business-like. I got a copy of the local paper on the way, because I thought that the account in it would be clearer to you than I could tell it. Shall I read it?" "Please; if that was your intention." "It is _The Stinbridge Herald_," explained the girl, taking a closely folded newspaper from the handbag which she carried. "Stinbridge is our nearest town--about six miles from Tilling Shaw, where we live. This is the account: "'MYSTERIOUS TRAGEDY AT TILLING "'WELL-KNOWN AGRICULTURALIST ATTEMPTS MURDER AND COMMITS SUICIDE "'The districts of Great Tilling, Tilling Shaw and the immediate neighbourhood were thrown into a state of unusual excitement on Thursday last by the report of a tragedy in their midst such as has rarely marked the annals of our law-abiding country-side. "'A _Herald_ representative was early on the scene, and his inquiries elucidated the fact that it was only too true that in this case rumour had not exaggerated the circumstances, rather the reverse indeed. "'On the afternoon of the day in question, Mr Frank Whitmarsh, of High Barn, presented himself at Barony, the residence of his uncle, Mr William Whitmarsh, with the intention of seeing him in reference to a dispute that was pending between them. This is understood to be connected with an alleged trespass in pursuit of game, each relative claiming exclusive sporting rights over a piece of water known as Hunstan Mere. "'On this occasion the elder gentleman was not at home and Mr Frank Whitmarsh, after waiting for some time, departed, leaving a message to the effect that he would return, and, according to one report, "have it out with Uncle William," later in the evening. "'This resolution he unfortunately kept. Returning about eight-forty-five P.M. he found his uncle in and for some time the two men remained together in the dining-room. What actually passed between them has not yet transpired, but it is said that for half-an-hour there had been nothing to indicate to the other occupants of the house that anything unusual was in progress when suddenly two shots rang out in rapid succession. Mrs Lawrence, the housekeeper at Barony, and a servant were the soonest on the spot, and, conquering the natural terror that for a moment held them outside the now silent room, they summoned up courage to throw open the door and to enter. The first thing that met their eyes was the body of Mr Frank Whitmarsh lying on the floor almost at their feet. In their distressed state it was immediately assumed by the horrified women that he was dead, or at least seriously wounded, but a closer examination revealed the fact that the gentleman had experienced an almost miraculous escape. At the time of the tragedy he was wearing a large old-fashioned silver watch; and in this the bullet intended for his heart was found, literally embedded deep in the works. The second shot had, however, effected its purpose, for at the other side of the room, still seated at the table, was Mr William Whitmarsh, already quite dead, with a terrible wound in his head and the weapon, a large-bore revolver of obsolete pattern, lying at his feet. "'Mr Frank Whitmarsh subsequently explained that the shock of the attack, and the dreadful appearance presented by his uncle when, immediately afterwards, he turned his hand against himself, must have caused him to faint. "'Readers of _The Herald_ will join in our expression of sympathy for all members of the Whitmarsh family, and in our congratulations to Mr Frank Whitmarsh on his providential escape. "'The inquest is fixed for Monday and it is anticipated that the funeral will take place on the following day.'" "That is all," concluded Miss George. "All that is in the paper," amended Carrados. "It is the same everywhere--'attempted murder and suicide'--that is what everyone accepts as a matter of course," went on the girl quickly. "How do they know that my father tried to kill Frank, or that he killed himself? How can they know, Mr Carrados?" "Your father, Miss George?" "Yes. My name is Madeline Whitmarsh. At home everyone looks at me as if I was an object of mingled pity and reproach. I thought that they might know the name here, so I gave the first that came into my head. I think it is a street I was directed along. Besides, I don't want it to be known that I came to see you in any case." "Why?" Much of the girl's conscious nervousness had stiffened into an attitude of unconscious hardness. Grief takes many forms, and whatever she had been before, the tragic episode had left Miss Whitmarsh a little hurt and cynical. "You are a man living in a town and can do as you like. I am a girl living in the country and have therefore to do largely as my neighbours like. For me to set up my opinion against popular feeling would constitute no small offence; to question its justice would be held to be adding outrageous insult to enormous injury." "So far I am unable to go beyond the newspaper account. On the face of it, your father--with what provocation of course I do not know--did attempt this Mr Frank Whitmarsh's life and then take his own. You imply another version. What reason have you?" "That is the terrible part of it," exclaimed the girl, with rising distress. "It was that which made me so afraid of coming to you, although I felt that I must, for I dreaded that when you asked me for proofs and I could give you none you would refuse to help me. We were not even in time to hear him speak, and yet I know, _know_ with absolute conviction, that my father would not have done this. There are things that you cannot explain, Mr Carrados, and--well, there is an end of it." Her voice sank to an absent-minded whisper. "Everyone will condemn him now that he cannot defend himself, and yet he could not even have had the revolver that was found at his feet." "What is that?" demanded Carrados sharply. "Do you mean that?" "Mean what?" she asked, with the blankness of one who has lost the thread of her own thoughts. "What you said about the revolver--that your father could not have had it?" "The revolver?" she repeated half wearily; "oh yes. It was a heavy, old-fashioned affair. It had been lying in a drawer of his desk for more than ten years because once a dog came into the orchard in broad daylight light and worried half-a-dozen lambs before anyone could do anything." "Yes, but why could he not have it on Thursday?" "I noticed that it was gone. After Frank had left in the afternoon I went into the room where he had been waiting, to finish dusting. The paper says the dining-room, but it was really papa's business-room and no one else used it. Then when I was dusting the desk I saw that the revolver was no longer there." "You had occasion to open the drawer?" "It is really a very old bureau and none of the drawers fit closely. Dust lies on the ledges and you always have to open them a little to dust properly. They were never kept locked." "Possibly your father had taken the revolver with him." "No. I had seen it there after he had gone. He rode to Stinbridge immediately after lunch and did not return until nearly eight. After he left I went to dust his room. It was then that I saw it. I was doing the desk when Frank knocked and interrupted me. That is how I came to be there twice." "But you said that you had no proof, Miss Whitmarsh," Carrados reminded her, with deep seriousness. "Do you not recognize the importance--the deadly importance--that this one shred of evidence may assume?" "Does it?" she replied simply. "I am afraid that I am rather dull just now. All yesterday I was absolutely dazed; I could not do the most ordinary things. I found myself looking at the clock for minutes together, yet absolutely incapable of grasping what time it was. In the same way I know that it struck me as being funny about the revolver but I always had to give it up. It was as though everything was there but things would not fit in." "You are sure, absolutely sure, that you saw the revolver there after your father had left, and missed it before he returned?" "Oh yes," said the girl quickly; "I remember realizing how curious it was at the time. Besides there is something else. I so often had things to ask papa about when he was out of the house that I got into the way of making little notes to remind me later. This morning I found on my dressing-table one that I had written on Thursday afternoon." "About this weapon?" "Yes; to ask him what could have become of it." Carrados made a further inquiry, and this was Madeline Whitmarsh's account of affairs existing between the two branches of the family: Until the time of William Whitmarsh, father of the William Whitmarsh just deceased, the properties of Barony and High Barn had formed one estate, descending from a William senior to a William junior down a moderately long line of yeomen Whitmarshes. Through the influence of his second wife this William senior divided the property, leaving Barony with its four hundred acres of good land to William junior, and High Barn, with which went three hundred acres of poor land, to his other son, father of the Frank implicated in the recent tragedy. But though divided, the two farms still had one common link. Beneath their growing corn and varied pasturage lay, it was generally admitted, a seam of coal at a depth and of a thickness that would render its working a paying venture. Even in William the Divider's time, when the idea was new, money in plenty would have been forthcoming, but he would have none of it, and when he died his will contained a provision restraining either son from mining or exploiting his land for mineral without the consent and co-operation of the other. This restriction became a legacy of hate. The brothers were only half-brothers and William having suffered unforgettably at the hands of his step-mother had old scores to pay off. Quite comfortably prosperous on his own rich farm, and quite satisfied with the excellent shooting and the congenial life, he had not the slightest desire to increase his wealth. He had the old dour, peasant-like instinct to cling to the house and the land of his forefathers. From this position no argument moved him. In the meanwhile, on the other side of the new boundary fence, Frank senior was growing poorer year by year. To his periodical entreaties that William would agree to shafts being sunk on High Barn he received an emphatic "Never in my time!" The poor man argued, besought, threatened and swore; the prosperous one shook his head and grinned. Carrados did not need to hear the local saying: "Half brothers: whole haters; like the Whitmarshes," to read the situation. "Of course I do not really understand the business part of it," said Madeline, "and many people blamed poor papa, especially when Uncle Frank drank himself to death. But I know that it was not mere obstinacy. He loved the undisturbed, peaceful land just as it was, and his father had wished it to remain the same. Collieries would bring swarms of strange men into the neighbourhood, poachers and trespassers, he said. The smoke and dust would ruin the land for miles round and drive away the game, and in the end, if the work did not turn out profitable, we should all be much worse off than before." "Does the restriction lapse now; will Mr Frank junior be able to mine?" "It will now lie with Frank and my brother William, just as it did before with their fathers. I should expect Willie to be quite favourable. He is more--modern." "You have not spoken of your brother." "I have two. Bob, the younger, is in Mexico," she explained; "and Willie in Canada with an engineering firm. They did not get on very well with papa and they went away." It did not require preternatural observation to deduce that the late William Whitmarsh had been "a little difficult." "When Uncle Frank died, less than six months ago, Frank came back to High Barn from South Africa. He had been away about two years." "Possibly he did not get on well with his father?" Madeline smiled sadly. "I am afraid that no two Whitmarsh men ever did get on well together," she admitted. "Your father and young Frank, for instance?" "Their lands adjoin; there were always quarrels and disputes," she replied. "Then Frank had his father's grievance over again." "He wished to mine?" "Yes. He told me that he had had experience of coal in Natal." "There was no absolute ostracism between you then? You were to some extent friends?" "Scarcely." She appeared to reflect. "Acquaintances.... We met occasionally, of course, at people's houses." "You did not visit High Barn?" "Oh no." "But there was no particular reason why you should not?" "Why do you ask me that?" she demanded quickly, and in a tone that was quite incompatible with the simple inquiry. Then, recognizing the fact, she added, with shamefaced penitence: "I beg your pardon, Mr Carrados. I am afraid that my nerves have gone to pieces since Thursday. The most ordinary things affect me inexplicably." "That is a common experience in such circumstances," said Carrados reassuringly. "Where were you at the time of the tragedy?" "I was in my bedroom, which is rather high up, changing. I had driven down to the village, to give an order, and had just returned. Mrs Lawrence told me that she had been afraid there might be quarrelling, but no one would ever have dreamed of this, and then came a loud shot and then, after a few seconds, another not so loud, and we rushed to the door--she and Mary first--and everything was absolutely still." "A loud shot _and then another not so loud_?" "Yes; I noticed that even at the time. I happened to speak to Mrs Lawrence of it afterwards and then she also remembered that it had been like that." Afterwards Carrados often recalled with grim pleasantry that the two absolutely vital points in the fabric of circumstantial evidence that was to exonerate her father and fasten the guilt upon another had dropped from the girl's lips utterly by chance. But at the moment the facts themselves monopolized his attention. "You are not disappointed that I can tell you so little?" she asked timidly. "Scarcely," he replied. "A suicide who could not have had the weapon he dies by, a victim who is miraculously preserved by an opportune watch, and two shots from the same pistol that differ materially in volume, all taken together do not admit of disappointment." "I am very stupid," she said. "I do not seem able to follow things. But you will come and clear my father's name?" "I will come," he replied. "Beyond that who shall prophesy?" It had been arranged between them that the girl should return at once, while Carrados would travel down to Great Tilling late that same afternoon and put up at the local fishing inn. In the evening he would call at Barony, where Madeline would accept him as a distant connexion of the family. The arrangement was only for the benefit of the domestics and any casual visitor who might be present, for there was no possibility of a near relation being in attendance. Nor was there any appreciable danger of either his name or person being recognized in those parts, a consideration that seemed to have some weight with the girl, for, more than once, she entreated him not to disclose to anyone his real business there until he had arrived at a definite conclusion. It was nine o'clock, but still just light enough to distinguish the prominent features of the landscape, when Carrados, accompanied by Parkinson, reached Barony. The house, as described by the man-servant, was a substantial grey stone building, very plain, very square, very exposed to the four winds. It had not even a porch to break the flat surface, and here and there in the line of its three solid storeys a window had been built up by some frugal, tax-evading Whitmarsh of a hundred years ago. "Sombre enough," commented Carrados, "but the connexion between environment and crime is not yet capable of analysis. We get murders in brand-new suburban villas and the virtues, light-heartedness and good-fellowship, in moated granges. What should you say about it, eh, Parkinson?" "I should say it was damp, sir," observed Parkinson, with his wisest air. Madeline Whitmarsh herself opened the door. She took them down the long flagged hall to the dining-room, a cheerful enough apartment whatever its exterior might forebode. "I am glad you have come now, Mr Carrados," she said hurriedly, when the door was closed. "Sergeant Brewster is here from Stinbridge police station to make some arrangements for the inquest. It is to be held at the schools here on Monday. He says that he must take the revolver with him to produce. Do you want to see it before he goes?" "I should like to," replied Carrados. "Will you come into papa's room then? He is there." The sergeant was at the table, making notes in his pocket-book, when they entered. An old-fashioned revolver lay before him. "This gentleman has come a long way on hearing about poor papa," said the girl. "He would like to see the revolver before you take it, Mr Brewster." "Good-evening, sir," said Brewster. "It's a bad business that brings us here." Carrados "looked" round the room and returned the policeman's greeting. Madeline hesitated for a moment, and then, picking up the weapon, put it into the blind man's hand. "A bit out of date, sir," remarked Brewster, with a nod. "But in good order yet, I find." "An early French make, I should say; one of Lefaucheux's probably," said Carrados. "You have removed the cartridges?" "Why, yes," admitted the sergeant, producing a matchbox from his pocket. "They're pin-fire, you see, and I'm not too fond of carrying a thing like that loaded in my pocket as I'm riding a young horse." "Quite so," agreed Carrados, fingering the cartridges. "I wonder if you happened to mark the order of these in the chambers?" "That was scarcely necessary, sir. Two, together, had been fired; the other four had not." "I once knew a case--possibly I read of it--where a pack of cards lay on the floor. It was a murder case and the guilt or innocence of an accused man depended on the relative positions of the fifty-first and fifty-second cards." "I think you must have read of that, sir," replied Brewster, endeavouring to implicate first Miss Whitmarsh and then Parkinson in his meaning smile. "However, this is straightforward enough." "Then, of course, you have not thought it worth while to look for anything else?" "I have noted all the facts that have any bearing on the case. Were you referring to any particular point, sir?" "I was only wondering," suggested Carrados, with apologetic mildness, "whether you, or anyone, had happened to find a wad lying about anywhere." The sergeant stroked his well-kept moustache to hide the smile that insisted, however, on escaping through his eyes. "Scarcely, sir," he replied, with fine irony. "Bulleted revolver cartridges contain no wad. You are thinking of a shot-gun, sir." "Oh," said Carrados, bending over the spent cartridge he was examining, "that settles it, of course." "I think so, sir," assented the sergeant, courteously but with a quiet enjoyment of the situation. "Well, miss, I'll be getting back now. I think I have everything I want." "You will excuse me a few minutes?" said Miss Whitmarsh, and the two callers were left alone. "Parkinson," said Carrados softly, as the door closed, "look round on the floor. There is no wad lying within sight?" "No, sir." "Then take the lamp and look behind things. But if you find one don't disturb it." For a minute strange and gigantic shadows chased one another across the ceiling as Parkinson moved the table-lamp to and fro behind the furniture. The man to whom blazing sunlight and the deepest shade were as one sat with his eyes fixed tranquilly on the unseen wall before him. "There is a little pellet of paper here behind the couch, sir," announced Parkinson. "Then put the lamp back." Together they drew the cumbrous old piece of furniture from the wall and Carrados went behind. On hands and knees, with his face almost to the floor, he appeared to be studying even the dust that lay there. Then with a light, unerring touch he carefully picked up the thing that Parkinson had found. Very gently he unrolled it, using his long, delicate fingers so skilfully that even at the end the particles of dust still clung here and there to the surface of the paper. "What do you make of it, Parkinson?" Parkinson submitted it to the judgment of a single sense. "A cigarette-paper to all appearance, sir. I can't say it's a kind that I've had experience of. It doesn't seem to have any distinct watermark but there is a half-inch of glossy paper along one edge." "Amber-tipped. Yes?" "Another edge is a little uneven; it appears to have been cut." "This edge opposite the mouthpiece. Yes, yes." "Patches are blackened, and little holes--like pinpricks--burned through. In places it is scorched brown." "Anything else?" "I hope there is nothing I have failed to observe, sir," said Parkinson, after a pause. Carrados's reply was a strangely irrelevant question. "What is the ceiling made of?" he demanded. "Oak boards, sir, with a heavy cross-beam." "Are there any plaster figures about the room?" "No, sir." "Or anything at all that is whitewashed?" "Nothing, sir." Carrados raised the scrap of tissue paper to his nose again, and for the second time he touched it with his tongue. "Very interesting, Parkinson," he remarked, and Parkinson's responsive "Yes, sir" was a model of discreet acquiescence. "I am sorry that I had to leave you," said Miss Whitmarsh, returning, "but Mrs Lawrence is out and my father made a practice of offering everyone refreshment." "Don't mention it," said Carrados. "We have not been idle. I came from London to pick up a scrap of paper, lying on the floor of this room. Well, here it is." He rolled the tissue into a pellet again and held it before her eyes. "The wad!" she exclaimed eagerly. "Oh, that proves that I was right?" "Scarcely 'proves,' Miss Whitmarsh." "But it shows that one of the shots was a blank charge, as you suggested this morning might have been the case." "Hardly even that." "What then?" she demanded, with her large dark eyes fixed in a curious fascination on his inscrutable face. "That behind the couch we have found this scrap of powder-singed paper." There was a moment's silence. The girl turned away her head. "I am afraid that I am a little disappointed," she murmured. "Perhaps better now than later. I wished to warn you that we must prove every inch of ground. Does your cousin Frank smoke cigarettes?" "I cannot say, Mr Carrados. You see ... I knew so little of him." "Quite so; there was just the chance. And your father?" "He never did. He despised them." "That is all I need ask you now. What time to-morrow shall I find you in, Miss Whitmarsh? It is Sunday, you remember." "At any time. The curiosity I inspire doesn't tempt me to encounter my friends, I can assure you," she replied, her face hardening at the recollection. "But ... Mr Carrados----" "Yes?" "The inquest is on Monday afternoon.... I had a sort of desperate faith that you would be able to vindicate papa." "By the time of the inquest, you mean?" "Yes. Otherwise----" "The verdict of a coroner's jury means nothing, Miss Whitmarsh. It is the merest formality." "It means a very great deal to me. It haunts and oppresses me. If they say--if it goes out--that papa is guilty of the attempt of murder, and of suicide, I shall never raise my head again." Carrados had no desire to prolong a futile discussion. "Good-night," he said, holding out his hand. "Good-night, Mr Carrados." She detained him a moment, her voice vibrant with quiet feeling. "I already owe you more than I can ever hope to express. Your wonderful kindness----" "A strange case," moralized Carrados, as they walked out of the quadrangular yard into the silent lane. "Instructive, but I more than half wish I'd never heard of it." "The young lady seems grateful, sir," Parkinson ventured to suggest. "The young lady is the case, Parkinson," replied his master rather grimly. A few score yards farther on a swing gate gave access to a field-path, cutting off the corner that the high road made with the narrow lane. This was their way, but instead of following the brown line of trodden earth Carrados turned to the left and indicated the line of buildings that formed the back of one side of the quadrangle they had passed through. "We will investigate here," he said. "Can you see a way in?" Most of the buildings opened on to the yard, but at one end of the range Parkinson discovered a door, secured only by a wooden latch. The place beyond was impenetrably dark, but the sweet, dusty smell of hay, and, from beyond, the occasional click of a horse's shoe on stone and the rattle of a head-stall chain through the manger ring told them that they were in the chaff-pen at the back of the stable. Carrados stretched out his hand and touched the wall with a single finger. "We need go no farther," he remarked, and as they resumed their way across the field he took out a handkerchief to wipe the taste of whitewash off his tongue. Madeline had spoken of the gradual decay of High Barn, but Carrados was hardly prepared for the poverty-stricken desolation which Parkinson described as they approached the homestead on the following afternoon. He had purposely selected a way that took them across many of young Whitmarsh's ill-stocked fields, fields in which sedge and charlock wrote an indictment of neglected drains and half-hearted tillage. On the land, the gates and hedges had been broken and unkempt; the buildings, as they passed through the farmyard, were empty and showed here and there a skeletonry of bare rafters to the sky. "Starved," commented the blind man, as he read the signs. "The thirsty owner and the hungry land: they couldn't both be fed." Although it was afternoon the bolts and locks of the front door had to be unfastened in answer to their knock. When at last the door was opened a shrivelled little old woman, rather wicked-looking in a comic way, and rather begrimed, stood there. "Mr Frank Whitmarsh?" she replied to Carrados's polite inquiry; "oh yes, he lives here. Frank," she called down the passage, "you're wanted." "What is it, mother?" responded a man's full, strong voice rather lazily. "Come and see!" and the old creature ogled Carrados with her beady eyes as though the situation constituted an excellent joke between them. There was the sound of a chair being moved and at the end of the passage a tall man appeared in his shirt sleeves. "I am a stranger to you," explained Carrados, "but I am staying at the Bridge Inn and I heard of your wonderful escape on Thursday. I was so interested that I have taken the liberty of coming across to congratulate you on it." "Oh, come in, come in," said Whitmarsh. "Yes ... it was a sort of miracle, wasn't it?" He led the way back into the room he had come from, half kitchen, half parlour. It at least had the virtue of an air of rude comfort, and some of the pewter and china that ornamented its mantelpiece and dresser would have rejoiced a collector's heart. "You find us a bit rough," apologized the young man, with something of contempt towards his surroundings. "We weren't expecting visitors." "And I was hesitating to come because I thought that you would be surrounded by your friends." This very ordinary remark seemed to afford Mrs Whitmarsh unbounded entertainment and for quite a number of seconds she was convulsed with silent amusement at the idea. "Shut up, mother," said her dutiful son. "Don't take any notice of her," he remarked to his visitors, "she often goes on like that. The fact is," he added, "we Whitmarshes aren't popular in these parts. Of course that doesn't trouble me; I've seen too much of things. And, taken as a boiling, the Whitmarshes deserve it." "Ah, wait till you touch the coal, my boy, then you'll see," put in the old lady, with malicious triumph. "I reckon we'll show them then, eh, mother?" he responded bumptiously. "Perhaps you've heard of that, Mr----?" "Carrados--Wynn Carrados. This is my man, Parkinson. I have to be attended because my sight has failed me. Yes, I had heard something about coal. Providence seems to be on your side just now, Mr Whitmarsh. May I offer you a cigarette?" "Thanks, I don't mind for once in a way." "They're Turkish; quite innocuous, I believe." "Oh, it isn't that. I can smoke cutty with any man, I reckon, but the paper affects my lips. I make my own and use a sort of paper with an end that doesn't stick." "The paper is certainly a drawback sometimes," agreed Carrados. "I've found that. Might I try one of yours?" They exchanged cigarettes and Whitmarsh returned to the subject of the tragedy. "This has made a bit of a stir, I can tell you," he remarked, with complacency. "I am sure it would. Well, it was the chief topic of conversation when I was in London." "Is that a fact?" Avowedly indifferent to the opinion of his neighbours, even Whitmarsh was not proof against the pronouncement of the metropolis. "What do they say about it up there?" "I should be inclined to think that the interest centres round the explanation you will give at the inquest of the cause of the quarrel." "There! What did I tell you?" exclaimed Mrs Whitmarsh. "Be quiet, mother. That's easily answered, Mr Carrados. There was a bit of duck shooting that lay between our two places. But perhaps you saw that in the papers?" "Yes," admitted Carrados, "I saw that. Frankly, the reason seemed inadequate to so deadly a climax." "What did I say?" demanded the irrepressible dame. "They won't believe it." The young man cast a wrathful look in his mother's direction and turned again to the visitor. "That's because you don't know Uncle William. _Any_ reason was good enough for him to quarrel over. Here, let me give you an instance. When I went in on Thursday he was smoking a pipe. Well, after a bit I took out a cigarette and lit it. I'm damned if he didn't turn round and start on me for that. How does that strike you for one of your own family, Mr Carrados?" "Unreasonable, I am bound to admit. I am afraid that I should have been inclined to argue the point. What did you do, Mr Whitmarsh?" "I hadn't gone there to quarrel," replied the young man, half sulky at the recollection. "It was his house. I threw it into the fireplace." "Very obliging," said Carrados. "But, if I may say so, it isn't so much a matter of speculation why he should shoot you as why he should shoot himself." "The gentleman seems friendly. Better ask his advice, Frank," put in the old woman in a penetrating whisper. "Stow it, mother!" said Whitmarsh sharply. "Are you crazy? Her idea of a coroner's inquest," he explained to Carrados, with easy contempt, "is that I am being tried for murder. As a matter of fact, Uncle William was a very passionate man, and, like many of that kind, he frequently went beyond himself. I don't doubt that he was sure he'd killed me, for he was a good shot and the force of the blow sent me backwards. He was a very proud man too, in a way--wouldn't stand correction or any kind of authority, and when he realized what he'd done and saw in a flash that he would be tried and hanged for it, suicide seemed the easiest way out of his difficulties, I suppose." "Yes; that sounds reasonable enough," admitted Carrados. "Then you don't think there will be any trouble, sir?" insinuated Mrs Whitmarsh anxiously. Frank had already professed his indifference to local opinion, but Carrados was conscious that both of them hung rather breathlessly on to his reply. "Why, no," he declared weightily. "I should see no reason for anticipating any. Unless," he added thoughtfully, "some clever lawyer was instructed to insist that there must be more in the dispute than appears on the surface." "Oh, them lawyers, them lawyers!" moaned the old lady in a panic. "They can make you say anything." "They can't make me say anything." A cunning look came into his complacent face. "And, besides, who's going to engage a lawyer?" "The family of the deceased gentleman might wish to do so." "Both of the sons are abroad and could not be back in time." "But is there not a daughter here? I understood so." Whitmarsh gave a short, unpleasant laugh and turned to look at his mother. "Madeline won't. You may bet your bottom tikkie it's the last thing she would want." The little old creature gazed admiringly at her big showy son and responded with an appreciative grimace that made her look more humorously rat-like than ever. "He! he! Missie won't," she tittered. "That would never do. He! he!" Wink succeeded nod and meaning smile until she relapsed into a state of quietness; and Parkinson, who had been fascinated by her contortions, was unable to decide whether she was still laughing or had gone to sleep. Carrados stayed a few more minutes and before they left he asked to see the watch. "A unique memento, Mr Whitmarsh," he remarked, examining it. "I should think this would become a family heirloom." "It's no good for anything else," said Whitmarsh practically. "A famous time-keeper it was, too." "The fingers are both gone." "Yes; the glass was broken, of course, and they must have caught in the cloth of my pocket and ripped off." "They naturally would; it was ten minutes past nine when the shot was fired." The young man thought and then nodded. "About that," he agreed. "Nearer than 'about,' if your watch was correct. Very interesting, Mr Whitmarsh. I am glad to have seen the watch that saved your life." Instead of returning to the inn Carrados directed Parkinson to take the road to Barony. Madeline was at home, and from the sound of voices it appeared that she had other visitors, but she came out to Carrados at once, and at his request took him into the empty dining-room while Parkinson stayed in the hall. "Yes?" she said eagerly. "I have come to tell you that I must throw up my brief," he said. "There is nothing more to be done and I return to town to-night." "Oh!" she stammered helplessly. "I thought--I thought----" "Your cousin did not abstract the revolver when he was here on Thursday, Miss Whitmarsh. He did not at his leisure fire a bullet into his own watch to make it appear, later in the day, as if he had been attacked. He did not reload the cartridge with a blank charge. He did not deliberately shoot your father and then fire off the blank cartridge. He _was_ attacked and the newspaper version is substantially correct. The whole fabric so delicately suggested by inference and innuendo falls to pieces." "Then you desert me, Mr Carrados?" she said, in a low, bitter voice. "I have seen the watch--the watch that saved Whitmarsh's life," he continued, unmoved. "It would save it again if necessary. It indicates ten minutes past nine--the time to a minute at which it is agreed the shot was fired. By what prescience was he to know at what exact minute his opportunity would occur?" "When I saw the watch on Thursday night the fingers were not there." "They are not, but the shaft remains. It is of an old-fashioned pattern and it will only take the fingers in one position. That position indicates ten minutes past nine." "Surely it would have been an easy matter to have altered that afterwards?" "In this case fate has been curiously systematic, Miss Whitmarsh. The bullet that shattered the works has so locked the action that it will not move a fraction this way or that." "There is something more than this--something that I do not understand," she persisted. "I think I have a right to know." "Since you insist, there is. There is the wad of the blank cartridge that you fired in the outbuilding." "Oh!" she exclaimed, in the moment of startled undefence, "how do you--how can you----" "You must leave the conjurer his few tricks for effect. Of course you naturally would fire it where the precious pellet could not get lost--the paper you steamed off the cigarette that Whitmarsh threw into the empty fire-grate; and of course the place must be some distance from the house or even that slight report might occasion remark." "Yes," she confessed, in a sudden abandonment to weary indifference, "it has been useless. I was a fool to set my cleverness against yours. Now, I suppose, Mr Carrados, you will have to hand me over to justice? "Well; why don't you say something?" she demanded impatiently, as he offered no comment. "People frequently put me in this embarrassing position," he explained diffidently, "and throw the responsibility on me. Now a number of years ago a large and stately building was set up in London and it was beautifully called 'The Royal Palace of Justice.' That was its official name and that was what it was to be; but very soon people got into the way of calling it the Law Courts, and to-day, if you asked a Londoner to direct you to the Palace of Justice he would undoubtedly set you down as a religious maniac. You see my difficulty?" "It is very strange," she said, intent upon her own reflections, "but I do not feel a bit ashamed to you of what I have done. I do not even feel afraid to tell you all about it, although of some of that I must certainly be ashamed. Why is it?" "Because I am blind?" "Oh no," she replied very positively. Carrados smiled at her decision but he did not seek to explain that when he could no longer see the faces of men the power was gradually given to him of looking into their hearts, to which some in their turn--strong, free spirits--instinctively responded. "There is such a thing as friendship at first sight," he suggested. "Why, yes; like quite old friends," she agreed. "It is a pity that I had no very trusty friend, since my mother died when I was quite little. Even my father has been--it is queer to think of it now--well, almost a stranger to me really." She looked at Carrados's serene and kindly face and smiled. "It is a great relief to be able to talk like this, without the necessity for lying," she remarked. "Did you know that I was engaged?" "No; you had not told me that." "Oh no, but you might have heard of it. He is a clergyman whom I met last summer. But, of course, that is all over now." "You have broken it off?" "Circumstances have broken it off. The daughter of a man who had the misfortune to be murdered might just possibly be tolerated as a vicar's wife, but the daughter of a murderer and suicide--it is unthinkable! You see, the requirements for the office are largely social, Mr Carrados." "Possibly your vicar may have other views." "Oh, he isn't a vicar yet, but he is rather well-connected, so it is quite assured. And he would be dreadfully torn if the choice lay with him. As it is, he will perhaps rather soon get over my absence. But, you see, if we married he could never get over my presence; it would always stand in the way of his preferment. I worked very hard to make it possible, but it could not be." "You were even prepared to send an innocent man to the gallows?" "I think so, at one time," she admitted frankly. "But I scarcely thought it would come to that. There are so many well-meaning people who always get up petitions.... No, as I stand here looking at myself over there, I feel that I couldn't quite have hanged Frank, no matter how much he deserved it.... You are very shocked, Mr Carrados?" "Well," admitted Carrados, with pleasant impartiality, "I have seen the young man, but the penalty, even with a reprieve, still seems to me a little severe." "Yet how do you know, even now, that he is, as you say, an innocent man?" "I don't," was the prompt admission. "I only know, in this astonishing case, that so far as my investigation goes, he did not murder your father by the act of his hand." "Not according to your Law Courts?" she suggested. "But in the great Palace of Justice?... Well, you shall judge." She left his side, crossed the room, and stood by the square, ugly window, looking out, but as blind as Carrados to the details of the somnolent landscape. "I met Frank for the first time after I was at all grown-up about three years ago, when I returned from boarding-school. I had not seen him since I was a child, and I thought him very tall and manly. It seemed a frightfully romantic thing in the circumstances to meet him secretly--of course my thoughts flew to Romeo and Juliet. We put impassioned letters for one another in a hollow tree that stood on the boundary hedge. But presently I found out--gradually and incredulously at first and then one night with a sudden terrible certainty--that my ideas of romance were not his.... I had what is called, I believe, a narrow escape. I was glad when he went abroad, for it was only my self-conceit that had suffered. I was never in love with him: only in love with the idea of being in love with him. "A few months ago Frank came back to High Barn. I tried never to meet him anywhere, but one day he overtook me in the lanes. He said that he had thought a lot about me while he was away, and would I marry him. I told him that it was impossible in any case, and, besides, I was engaged. He coolly replied that he knew. I was dumbfounded and asked him what he meant. "Then he took out a packet of my letters that he had kept somewhere all the time. He insisted on reading parts of them up and telling me what this and that meant and what everyone would say it proved. I was horrified at the construction that seemed capable of being put on my foolish but innocent gush. I called him a coward and a blackguard and a mean cur and a sneaking cad and everything I could think of in one long breath, until I found myself faint and sick with excitement and the nameless growing terror of it. "He only laughed and told me to think it over, and then walked on, throwing the letters up into the air and catching them. "It isn't worth while going into all the times he met and threatened me. I was to marry him or he would expose me. He would never allow me to marry anyone else. And then finally he turned round and said that he didn't really want to marry me at all; he only wanted to force father's consent to start mining and this had seemed the easiest way." "That is what is called blackmail, Miss Whitmarsh; a word you don't seem to have applied to him. The punishment ranges up to penal servitude for life in extreme cases." "Yes, that is what it really was. He came on Thursday with the letters in his pocket. That was his last threat when he could not move me. I can guess what happened. He read the letters and proposed a bargain. And my father, who was a very passionate man, and very proud in certain ways, shot him as he thought, and then, in shame and in the madness of despair, took his own life.... Now, Mr Carrados, you were to be my judge." "I think," said the blind man, with a great pity in his voice, "that it will be sufficient for you to come up for Judgment when called upon." * * * * * Three weeks later a registered letter bearing the Liverpool postmark was delivered at The Turrets. After he had read it Carrados put it away in a special drawer of his desk, and once or twice in after years, when his work seemed rather barren, he took it out and read it. This is what it contained: "DEAR MR CARRADOS,--Some time after you had left me that Sunday afternoon, a man came in the dark to the door and asked for me. I did not see his face for he kept in the shade, but his figure was not very unlike that of your servant Parkinson. A packet was put into my hands and he was gone without a word. From this I imagine that perhaps you did not leave quite as soon as you had intended. "Thank you very much indeed for the letters. I was glad to have the miserable things, to drop them into the fire, and to see them pass utterly out of my own and everybody else's life. I wonder who else in the world would have done so much for a forlorn creature who just flashed across a few days of his busy life? and then I wonder who else could. "But there is something else for which I thank you now far, far more, and that is for saving me from the blindness of my own passionate folly. When I look back on the abyss of meanness, treachery and guilt into which I would have wilfully cast myself, and been condemned to live in all my life, I can scarcely trust myself to write. "I will not say that I do not suffer now. I think I shall for many years to come, but all the bitterness and I think all the hardness have been drawn out. "You will see that I am writing from Liverpool. I have taken a second-class passage to Canada and we sail to-night. Willie, who returned to Barony last week, has lent me all the money I shall need until I find work. Do not be apprehensive. It is not with the vague uncertainty of an indifferent typist or a downtrodden governess that I go, but as an efficient domestic servant--a capable cook, housemaid or 'general,' as need be. It sounds rather incredible at first, does it not, but such things happen, and I shall get on very well. "Good-bye, Mr Carrados; I shall remember you very often and very gratefully. "MADELINE WHITMARSH. "_P.S._--Yes, there is friendship at first sight." THE COMEDY AT FOUNTAIN COTTAGE Carrados had rung up Mr Carlyle soon after the inquiry agent had reached his office in Bampton Street on a certain morning in April. Mr Carlyle's face at once assumed its most amiable expression as he recognized his friend's voice. "Yes, Max," he replied, in answer to the call, "I am here and at the top of form, thanks. Glad to know that you are back from Trescoe. Is there--anything?" "I have a couple of men coming in this evening whom you might like to meet," explained Carrados. "Manoel the Zambesia explorer is one and the other an East-End slum doctor who has seen a few things. Do you care to come round to dinner?" "Delighted," warbled Mr Carlyle, without a moment's consideration. "Charmed. Your usual hour, Max?" Then the smiling complacence of his face suddenly changed and the wire conveyed an exclamation of annoyance. "I am really very sorry, Max, but I have just remembered that I have an engagement. I fear that I must deny myself after all." "Is it important?" "No," admitted Mr Carlyle. "Strictly speaking, it is not in the least important; this is why I feel compelled to keep it. It is only to dine with my niece. They have just got into an absurd doll's house of a villa at Groat's Heath and I had promised to go there this evening." "Are they particular to a day?" There was a moment's hesitation before Mr Carlyle replied. "I am afraid so, now it is fixed," he said. "To you, Max, it will be ridiculous or incomprehensible that a third to dinner--and he only a middle-aged uncle--should make a straw of difference. But I know that in their bijou way it will be a little domestic event to Elsie--an added anxiety in giving the butcher an order, an extra course for dinner, perhaps; a careful drilling of the one diminutive maid-servant, and she is such a charming little woman--eh? Who, Max? No! No! I did not say the maid-servant; if I did it is the fault of this telephone. Elsie is such a delightful little creature that, upon my soul, it would be too bad to fail her now." "Of course it would, you old humbug," agreed Carrados, with sympathetic laughter in his voice. "Well, come to-morrow instead. I shall be alone." "Oh, besides, there is a special reason for going, which for the moment I forgot," explained Mr Carlyle, after accepting the invitation. "Elsie wishes for my advice with regard to her next-door neighbour. He is an elderly man of retiring disposition and he makes a practice of throwing kidneys over into her garden." "Kittens! Throwing kittens?" "No, no, Max. Kidneys. Stewed k-i-d-n-e-y-s. It is a little difficult to explain plausibly over a badly vibrating telephone, I admit, but that is what Elsie's letter assured me, and she adds that she is in despair." "At all events it makes the lady quite independent of the butcher, Louis!" "I have no further particulars, Max. It may be a solitary diurnal offering, or the sky may at times appear to rain kidneys. If it is a mania the symptoms may even have become more pronounced and the man is possibly showering beef-steaks across by this time. I will make full inquiry and let you know." "Do," assented Carrados, in the same light-hearted spirit. "Mrs Nickleby's neighbourly admirer expressed his feelings by throwing cucumbers, you remember, but this man puts him completely in the shade." It had not got beyond the proportions of a jest to either of them when they rang off--one of those whimsical occurrences in real life that sound so fantastic in outline. Carrados did not give the matter another thought until the next evening when his friend's arrival revived the subject. "And the gentleman next door?" he inquired among his greetings. "Did the customary offering arrive while you were there?" "No," admitted Mr Carlyle, beaming pleasantly upon all the familiar appointments of the room, "it did not, Max. In fact, so diffident has the mysterious philanthropist become, that no one at Fountain Cottage has been able to catch sight of him lately, although I am told that Scamp--Elsie's terrier--betrays a very self-conscious guilt and suspiciously muddy paws every morning." "Fountain Cottage?" "That is the name of the toy villa." "Yes, but Fountain something, Groat's Heath--Fountain Court: wasn't that where Metrobe----?" "Yes, yes, to be sure, Max. Metrobe the traveller, the writer and scientist----" "Scientist!" "Well, he took up spiritualism or something, didn't he? At any rate, he lived at Fountain Court, an old red-brick house in a large neglected garden there, until his death a couple of years ago. Then, as Groat's Heath had suddenly become a popular suburb with a tube railway, a land company acquired the estate, the house was razed to the ground and in a twinkling a colony of Noah's ark villas took its place. There is Metrobe Road here, and Court Crescent there, and Mansion Drive and what not, and Elsie's little place perpetuates another landmark." "I have Metrobe's last book there," said Carrados, nodding towards a point on his shelves. "In fact he sent me a copy. 'The Flame beyond the Dome' it is called--the queerest farrago of balderdash and metaphysics imaginable. But what about the neighbour, Louis? Did you settle what we might almost term 'his hash'?" "Oh, he is mad, of course. I advised her to make as little fuss about it as possible, seeing that the man lives next door and might become objectionable, but I framed a note for her to send which will probably have a good effect." "Is he mad, Louis?" "Well, I don't say that he is strictly a lunatic, but there is obviously a screw loose somewhere. He may carry indiscriminate benevolence towards Yorkshire terriers to irrational lengths. Or he may be a food specialist with a grievance. In effect he is mad on at least that one point. How else are we to account for the circumstances?" "I was wondering," replied Carrados thoughtfully. "You suggest that he really may have a sane object?" "I suggest it--for the sake of argument. If he has a sane object, what is it?" "That I leave to you, Max," retorted Mr Carlyle conclusively. "If he has a sane object, pray what is it?" "For the sake of the argument I will tell you that in half-a-dozen words, Louis," replied Carrados, with good-humoured tolerance. "If he is not mad in the sense which you have defined, the answer stares us in the face. His object is precisely that which he is achieving." Mr Carlyle looked inquiringly into the placid, unemotional face of his blind friend, as if to read there whether, incredible as it might seem, Max should be taking the thing seriously after all. "And what is that?" he asked cautiously. "In the first place he has produced the impression that he is eccentric or irresponsible. That is sometimes useful in itself. Then what else has he done?" "What else, Max?" replied Mr Carlyle, with some indignation. "Well, whatever he wishes to achieve by it I can tell you one thing else that he has done. He has so demoralized Scamp with his confounded kidneys that Elsie's neatly arranged flower-beds--and she took Fountain Cottage principally on account of an unusually large garden--are hopelessly devastated. If she keeps the dog up, the garden is invaded night and day by an army of peregrinating feline marauders that scent the booty from afar. He has gained the everlasting annoyance of an otherwise charming neighbour, Max. Can you tell me what he has achieved by that?" "The everlasting esteem of Scamp probably. Is he a good watch-dog, Louis?" "Good heavens, Max!" exclaimed Mr Carlyle, coming to his feet as though he had the intention of setting out for Groat's Heath then and there, "is it possible that he is planning a burglary?" "Do they keep much of value about the house?" "No," admitted Mr Carlyle, sitting down again with considerable relief. "No, they don't. Bellmark is not particularly well endowed with worldly goods--in fact, between ourselves, Max, Elsie could have done very much better from a strictly social point of view, but he is a thoroughly good fellow and idolizes her. They have no silver worth speaking of, and for the rest--well, just the ordinary petty cash of a frugal young couple." "Then he probably is not planning a burglary. I confess that the idea did not appeal to me. If it is only that, why should he go to the trouble of preparing this particular succulent dish to throw over his neighbour's ground when cold liver would do quite as well?" "If it is not only that, why should he go to the trouble, Max?" "Because by that bait he produces the greatest disturbance of your niece's garden." "And, if sane, why should he wish to do that?" "Because in those conditions he can the more easily obliterate his own traces if he trespasses there at nights." "Well, upon my word, that's drawing a bow at a venture, Max. If it isn't burglary, what motive could the man have for any such nocturnal perambulation?" An expression of suave mischief came into Carrados's usually imperturbable face. "Many imaginable motives surely, Louis. You are a man of the world. Why not to meet a charming little woman----" "No, by gad!" exclaimed the scandalized uncle warmly; "I decline to consider the remotest possibility of that explanation. Elsie----" "Certainly not," interposed Carrados, smothering his quiet laughter. "The maid-servant, of course." Mr Carlyle reined in his indignation and recovered himself with his usual adroitness. "But, you know, that is an atrocious libel, Max," he added. "I never said such a thing. However, is it probable?" "No," admitted Carrados. "I don't think that in the circumstances it is at all probable." "Then where are we, Max?" "A little further than we were at the beginning. Very little.... Are you willing to give me a roving commission to investigate?" "Of course, Max, of course," assented Mr Carlyle heartily. "I--well, as far as I was concerned, I regarded the matter as settled." Carrados turned to his desk and the ghost of a smile might possibly have lurked about his face. He produced some stationery and indicated it to his visitor. "You don't mind giving me a line of introduction to your niece?" "Pleasure," murmured Carlyle, taking up a pen. "What shall I say?" Carrados took the inquiry in its most literal sense and for reply he dictated the following letter:-- "'MY DEAR ELSIE,'-- "If that is the way you usually address her," he parenthesized. "Quite so," acquiesced Mr Carlyle, writing. "'The bearer of this is Mr Carrados, of whom I have spoken to you.' "You have spoken of me to her, I trust, Louis?" he put in. "I believe that I have casually referred to you," admitted the writer. "I felt sure you would have done. It makes the rest easier. "'He is not in the least mad although he frequently does things which to the uninitiated appear more or less eccentric at the moment. I think that you would be quite safe in complying with any suggestion he may make. "'Your affectionate uncle, "'LOUIS CARLYLE.'" He accepted the envelope and put it away in a pocket-book that always seemed extraordinarily thin for the amount of papers it contained. "I may call there to-morrow," he added. Neither again referred to the subject during the evening, but when Parkinson came to the library a couple of hours after midnight to know whether he would be required again, he found his master rather deeply immersed in a book and a gap on the shelf where "The Flame beyond the Dome" had formerly stood. It is not impossible that Mr Carlyle supplemented his brief note of introduction with a more detailed communication that reached his niece by the ordinary postal service at an earlier hour than the other. At all events, when Mr Carrados presented himself at the toy villa on the following afternoon he found Elsie Bellmark suspiciously disposed to accept him and his rather gratuitous intervention among her suburban troubles as a matter of course. When the car drew up at the bright green wooden gate of Fountain Cottage another visitor, apparently a good-class working man, was standing on the path of the trim front garden, lingering over a reluctant departure. Carrados took sufficient time in alighting to allow the man to pass through the gate before he himself entered. The last exchange of sentences reached his ear. "I'm sure, marm, you won't find anyone to do the work at less." "I can quite believe that," replied a very fair young lady who stood nearer the house, "but, you see, we do all the gardening ourselves, thank you." Carrados made himself known and was taken into the daintily pretty drawing-room that opened on to the lawn behind the house. "I do not need to ask if you are Mrs Bellmark," he had declared. "I have Uncle Louis's voice?" she divined readily. "The niece of his voice, so to speak," he admitted. "Voices mean a great deal to me, Mrs Bellmark." "In recognizing and identifying people?" she suggested. "Oh, very much more than that. In recognizing and identifying their moods--their thoughts even. There are subtle lines of trouble and the deep rings of anxious care quite as patent to the ear as to the sharpest eye sometimes." Elsie Bellmark shot a glance of curiously interested speculation to the face that, in spite of its frank, open bearing, revealed so marvellously little itself. "If I had any dreadful secret, I think that I should be a little afraid to talk to you, Mr Carrados," she said, with a half-nervous laugh. "Then please do not have any dreadful secret," he replied, with quite youthful gallantry. "I more than suspect that Louis has given you a very transpontine idea of my tastes. I do not spend all my time tracking murderers to their lairs, Mrs Bellmark, and I have never yet engaged in a hand-to-hand encounter with a band of cut-throats." "He told us," she declared, the recital lifting her voice into a tone that Carrados vowed to himself was wonderfully thrilling, "about this: He said that you were once in a sort of lonely underground cellar near the river with two desperate men whom you could send to penal servitude. The police, who were to have been there at a certain time, had not arrived, and you were alone. The men had heard that you were blind but they could hardly believe it. They were discussing in whispers which could not be overheard what would be the best thing to do, and they had just agreed that if you really were blind they would risk the attempt to murder you. Then, Louis said, at that very moment you took a pair of scissors from your pocket, and coolly asking them why they did not have a lamp down there, you actually snuffed the candle that stood on the table before you. Is that true?" Carrados's mind leapt vividly back to the most desperate moment of his existence, but his smile was gently deprecating as he replied: "I seem to recognize the touch of truth in the inclination to do _anything_ rather than fight," he confessed. "But, although he never suspects it, Louis really sees life through rose-coloured opera glasses. Take the case of your quite commonplace neighbour----" "That is really what you came about?" she interposed shrewdly. "Frankly, it is," he replied. "I am more attracted by a turn of the odd and grotesque than by the most elaborate tragedy. The fantastic conceit of throwing stewed kidneys over into a neighbour's garden irresistibly appealed to me. Louis, as I was saying, regards the man in the romantic light of a humanitarian monomaniac or a demented food reformer. I take a more subdued view and I think that his action, when rightly understood, will prove to be something quite obviously natural." "Of course it is very ridiculous, but all the same it has been desperately annoying," she confessed. "Still, it scarcely matters now. I am only sorry that it should have been the cause of wasting your valuable time, Mr Carrados." "My valuable time," he replied, "only seems valuable to me when I am, as you would say, wasting it. But is the incident closed? Louis told me that he had drafted you a letter of remonstrance. May I ask if it has been effective?" Instead of replying at once she got up and walked to the long French window and looked out over the garden where the fruit-trees that had been spared from the older cultivation were rejoicing the eye with the promise of their pink and white profusion. "I did not send it," she said slowly, turning to her visitor again. "There is something that I did not tell Uncle Louis, because it would only have distressed him without doing any good. We may be leaving here very soon." "Just when you had begun to get it well in hand?" he said, in some surprise. "It is a pity, is it not, but one cannot foresee these things. There is no reason why you should not know the cause, since you have interested yourself so far, Mr Carrados. In fact," she added, smiling away the seriousness of the manner into which she had fallen, "I am not at all sure that you do not know already." He shook his head and disclaimed any such prescience. "At all events you recognized that I was not exactly light-hearted," she insisted. "Oh, you did not say that _I_ had dark rings under my eyes, I know, but the cap fitted excellently.... It has to do with my husband's business. He is with a firm of architects. It was a little venturesome taking this house--we had been in apartments for two years--but Roy was doing so well with his people and I was so enthusiastic for a garden that we did--scarcely two months ago. Everything seemed quite assured. Then came this thunderbolt. The partners--it is only a small firm, Mr Carrados--required a little more capital in the business. Someone whom they know is willing to put in two thousand pounds, but he stipulates for a post with them as well. He, like my husband, is a draughtsman. There is no need for the services of both and so----" "Is it settled?" "In effect, it is. They are as nice as can be about it but that does not alter the facts. They declare that they would rather have Roy than the new man and they have definitely offered to retain him if he can bring in even one thousand pounds. I suppose they have some sort of compunction about turning him adrift, for they have asked him to think it over and let them know on Monday. Of course, that is the end of it. It may be--I don't know--I don't like to think, how long before Roy gets another position equally good. We must endeavour to get this house off our hands and creep back to our three rooms. It is ... luck." Carrados had been listening to her wonderfully musical voice as another man might have been drawn irresistibly to watch the piquant charm of her delicate face. "Yes," he assented, almost to himself, "it is that strange, inexplicable grouping of men and things that, under one name or another, we all confess ... just luck." "Of course you will not mention this to Uncle Louis yet, Mr Carrados?" "If you do not wish it, certainly not." "I am sure that it would distress him. He is so soft-hearted, so kind, in everything. Do you know, I found out that he had had an invitation to dine somewhere and meet some quite important people on Tuesday. Yet he came here instead, although most other men would have cried off, just because he knew that we small people would have been disappointed." "Well, you can't expect me to see any self-denial in that," exclaimed Carrados. "Why, I was one of them myself." Elsie Bellmark laughed outright at the expressive disgust of his tone. "I had no idea of that," she said. "Then there is another reason. Uncle is not very well off, yet if he knew how Roy was situated he would make an effort to arrange matters. He would, I am sure, even borrow himself in order to lend us the money. That is a thing Roy and I are quite agreed on. We will go back; we will go under, if it is to be; but we will not borrow money, not even from Uncle Louis." Once, subsequently, Carrados suddenly asked Mr Carlyle whether he had ever heard a woman's voice roll like a celestial kettle-drum. The professional gentleman was vastly amused by the comparison, but he admitted that he had not. "So that, you see," concluded Mrs Bellmark, "there is really nothing to be done." "Oh, quite so; I am sure that you are right," assented her visitor readily. "But in the meanwhile I do not see why the annoyance of your next-door neighbour should be permitted to go on." "Of course: I have not told you that, and I could not explain it to uncle," she said. "I am anxious not to do anything to put him out because I have a hope--rather a faint one, certainly--that the man may be willing to take over this house." It would be incorrect to say that Carrados pricked up his ears--if that curious phenomenon has any physical manifestation--for the sympathetic expression of his face did not vary a fraction. But into his mind there came a gleam such as might inspire a patient digger who sees the first speck of gold that justifies his faith in an unlikely claim. "Oh," he said, quite conversationally, "is there a chance of that?" "He undoubtedly did want it. It is very curious in a way. A few weeks ago, before we were really settled, he came one afternoon, saying he had heard that this house was to be let. Of course I told him that he was too late, that we had already taken it for three years." "You were the first tenants?" "Yes. The house was scarcely ready when we signed the agreement. Then this Mr Johns, or Jones--I am not sure which he said--went on in a rather extraordinary way to persuade me to sublet it to him. He said that the house was dear and I could get plenty, more convenient, at less rent, and it was unhealthy, and the drains were bad, and that we should be pestered by tramps and it was just the sort of house that burglars picked on, only he had taken a sort of fancy to it and he would give me a fifty-pound premium for the term." "Did he explain the motive for this rather eccentric partiality?" "I don't imagine that he did. He repeated several times that he was a queer old fellow with his whims and fancies and that they often cost him dear." "I think we all know that sort of old fellow," said Carrados. "It must have been rather entertaining for you, Mrs Bellmark." "Yes, I suppose it was," she admitted. "The next thing we knew of him was that he had taken the other house as soon as it was finished." "Then he would scarcely require this?" "I am afraid not." It was obvious that the situation was not disposed of. "But he seems to have so little furniture there and to live so solitarily," she explained, "that we have even wondered whether he might not be there merely as a sort of caretaker." "And you have never heard where he came from or who he is?" "Only what the milkman told my servant--our chief source of local information, Mr Carrados. He declares that the man used to be the butler at a large house that stood here formerly, Fountain Court, and that his name is neither Johns nor Jones. But very likely it is all a mistake." "If not, he is certainly attached to the soil," was her visitor's rejoinder. "And, apropos of that, will you show me over your garden before I go, Mrs Bellmark?" "With pleasure," she assented, rising also. "I will ring now and then I can offer you tea when we have been round. That is, if you----?" "Thank you, I do," he replied. "And would you allow my man to go through into the garden--in case I require him?" "Oh, certainly. You must tell me just what you want without thinking it necessary to ask permission, Mr Carrados," she said, with a pretty air of protection. "Shall Amy take a message?" He acquiesced and turned to the servant who had appeared in response to the bell. "Will you go to the car and tell my man--Parkinson--that I require him here. Say that he can bring his book; he will understand." "Yes, sir." They stepped out through the French window and sauntered across the lawn. Before they had reached the other side Parkinson reported himself. "You had better stay here," said his master, indicating the sward generally. "Mrs Bellmark will allow you to bring out a chair from the drawing-room." "Thank you, sir; there is a rustic seat already provided," replied Parkinson. He sat down with his back to the houses and opened the book that he had brought. Let in among its pages was an ingeniously contrived mirror. When their promenade again brought them near the rustic seat Carrados dropped a few steps behind. "He is watching you from one of the upper rooms, sir," fell from Parkinson's lips as he sat there without raising his eyes from the page before him. The blind man caught up to his hostess again. "You intended this lawn for croquet?" he asked. "No; not specially. It is too small, isn't it?" "Not necessarily. I think it is in about the proportion of four by five all right. Given that, size does not really matter for an unsophisticated game." To settle the point he began to pace the plot of ground, across and then lengthways. Next, apparently dissatisfied with this rough measurement, he applied himself to marking it off more exactly by means of his walking-stick. Elsie Bellmark was by no means dull but the action sprang so naturally from the conversation that it did not occur to her to look for any deeper motive. "He has got a pair of field-glasses and is now at the window," communicated Parkinson. "I am going out of sight," was the equally quiet response. "If he becomes more anxious tell me afterwards." "It is quite all right," he reported, returning to Mrs Bellmark with the satisfaction of bringing agreeable news. "It should make a splendid little ground, but you may have to level up a few dips after the earth has set." A chance reference to the kitchen garden by the visitor took them to a more distant corner of the enclosure where the rear of Fountain Cottage cut off the view from the next house windows. "We decided on this part for vegetables because it does not really belong to the garden proper," she explained. "When they build farther on this side we shall have to give it up very soon. And it would be a pity if it was all in flowers." With the admirable spirit of the ordinary Englishwoman, she spoke of the future as if there was no cloud to obscure its prosperous course. She had frankly declared their position to her uncle's best friend because in the circumstances it had seemed to be the simplest and most straightforward thing to do; beyond that, there was no need to whine about it. "It is a large garden," remarked Carrados. "And you really do all the work of it yourselves?" "Yes; I think that is half the fun of a garden. Roy is out here early and late and he does all the hard work. But how did you know? Did uncle tell you?" "No; you told me yourself." "I? Really?" "Indirectly. You were scorning the proffered services of a horticultural mercenary at the moment of my arrival." "Oh, I remember," she laughed. "It was Irons, of course. He is a great nuisance, he is so stupidly persistent. For some weeks now he has been coming time after time, trying to persuade me to engage him. Once when we were all out he had actually got into the garden and was on the point of beginning work when I returned. He said he saw the milkmen and the grocers leaving samples at the door so he thought that he would too!" "A practical jester evidently. Is Mr Irons a local character?" "He said that he knew the ground and the conditions round about here better than anyone else in Groat's Heath," she replied. "Modesty is not among Mr Irons's handicaps. He said that he----How curious!" "What is, Mrs Bellmark?" "I never connected the two men before, but he said that he had been gardener at Fountain Court for seven years." "Another family retainer who is evidently attached to the soil." "At all events they have not prospered equally, for while Mr Johns seems able to take a nice house, poor Irons is willing to work for half-a-crown a day, and I am told that all the other men charge four shillings." They had paced the boundaries of the kitchen garden, and as there was nothing more to be shown Elsie Bellmark led the way back to the drawing-room. Parkinson was still engrossed in his book, the only change being that his back was now turned towards the high paling of clinker-built oak that separated the two gardens. "I will speak to my man," said Carrados, turning aside. "He hurried down and is looking through the fence, sir," reported the watcher. "That will do then. You can return to the car." "I wonder if you would allow me to send you a small hawthorn-tree?" inquired Carrados among his felicitations over the teacups five minutes later. "I think it ought to be in every garden." "Thank you--but is it worth while?" replied Mrs Bellmark, with a touch of restraint. As far as mere words went she had been willing to ignore the menace of the future, but in the circumstances the offer seemed singularly inept and she began to suspect that outside his peculiar gifts the wonderful Mr Carrados might be a little bit obtuse after all. "Yes; I think it is," he replied, with quiet assurance. "In spite of----?" "I am not forgetting that unless your husband is prepared on Monday next to invest one thousand pounds you contemplate leaving here." "Then I do not understand it, Mr Carrados." "And I am unable to explain as yet. But I brought you a note from Louis Carlyle, Mrs Bellmark. You only glanced at it. Will you do me the favour of reading me the last paragraph?" She picked up the letter from the table where it lay and complied with cheerful good-humour. "There is some suggestion that you want me to accede to," she guessed cunningly when she had read the last few words. "There are some three suggestions which I hope you will accede to," he replied. "In the first place I want you to write to Mr Johns next door--let him get the letter to-night--inquiring whether he is still disposed to take this house." "I had thought of doing that shortly." "Then that is all right. Besides, he will ultimately decline." "Oh," she exclaimed--it would be difficult to say whether with relief or disappointment--"do you think so? Then why----" "To keep him quiet in the meantime. Next I should like you to send a little note to Mr Irons--your maid could deliver it also to-night, I dare say?" "Irons! Irons the gardener?" "Yes," apologetically. "Only a line or two, you know. Just saying that, after all, if he cares to come on Monday you can find him a few days' work." "But in any circumstances I don't want him." "No; I can quite believe that you could do better. Still, it doesn't matter, as he won't come, Mrs Bellmark; not for half-a-crown a day, believe me. But the thought will tend to make Mr Irons less restive also. Lastly, will you persuade your husband not to decline his firm's offer until Monday?" "Very well, Mr Carrados," she said, after a moment's consideration. "You are Uncle Louis's friend and therefore our friend. I will do what you ask." "Thank you," said Carrados. "I shall endeavour not to disappoint you." "I shall not be disappointed because I have not dared to hope. And I have nothing to expect because I am still completely in the dark." "I have been there for nearly twenty years, Mrs Bellmark." "Oh, I am sorry!" she cried impulsively. "So am I--occasionally," he replied. "Good-bye, Mrs Bellmark. You will hear from me shortly, I hope. About the hawthorn, you know." It was, indeed, in something less than forty-eight hours that she heard from him again. When Bellmark returned to his toy villa early on Saturday afternoon Elsie met him almost at the gate with a telegram in her hand. "I really think, Roy, that everyone we have to do with here goes mad," she exclaimed, in tragi-humorous despair. "First it was Mr Johns or Jones--if he is Johns or Jones--and then Irons who wanted to work here for half of what he could get at heaps of places about, and now just look at this wire that came from Mr Carrados half-an-hour ago." This was the message that he read: _Please procure sardine tin opener mariner's compass and bottle of champagne. Shall arrive 6.45 bringing Crataegus Coccinea._--CARRADOS. "Could anything be more absurd?" she demanded. "Sounds as though it was in code," speculated her husband. "Who's the foreign gentleman he's bringing?" "Oh, that's a kind of special hawthorn--I looked it up. But a bottle of champagne, and a compass, and a sardine tin opener! What possible connexion is there between them?" "A very resourceful man might uncork a bottle of champagne with a sardine tin opener," he suggested. "And find his way home afterwards by means of a mariner's compass?" she retorted. "No, Roy dear, you are not a sleuth-hound. We had better have our lunch." They lunched, but if the subject of Carrados had been tabooed the meal would have been a silent one. "I have a compass on an old watch-chain somewhere," volunteered Bellmark. "And I have a tin opener in the form of a bull's head," contributed Elsie. "But we have no champagne, I suppose?" "How could we have, Roy? We never have had any. Shall you mind going down to the shops for a bottle?" "You really think that we ought?" "Of course we must, Roy. We don't know what mightn't happen if we didn't. Uncle Louis said that they once failed to stop a jewel robbery because the jeweller neglected to wipe his shoes on the shop doormat, as Mr Carrados had told him to do. Suppose Johns is a desperate anarchist and he succeeded in blowing up Buckingham Palace because we----" "All right. A small bottle, eh?" "No. A large one. Quite a large one. Don't you see how exciting it is becoming?" "If you are excited already you don't need much champagne," argued her husband. Nevertheless he strolled down to the leading wine-shop after lunch and returned with his purchase modestly draped in the light summer overcoat that he carried on his arm. Elsie Bellmark, who had quite abandoned her previous unconcern, in the conviction that "something was going to happen," spent the longest afternoon that she could remember, and even Bellmark, in spite of his continual adjurations to her to "look at the matter logically," smoked five cigarettes in place of his usual Saturday afternoon pipe and neglected to do any gardening. At exactly six-forty-five a motor car was heard approaching. Elsie made a desperate rally to become the self-possessed hostess again. Bellmark was favourably impressed by such marked punctuality. Then a Regent Street delivery van bowled past their window and Elsie almost wept. The suspense was not long, however. Less than five minutes later another vehicle raised the dust of the quiet suburban road, and this time a private car stopped at their gate. "Can you see any policemen inside?" whispered Elsie. Parkinson got down and opening the door took out a small tree which he carried up to the porch and there deposited. Carrados followed. "At all events there isn't much wrong," said Bellmark. "He's smiling all the time." "No, it isn't really a smile," explained Elsie; "it's his normal expression." She went out into the hall just as the front door was opened. "It is the 'Scarlet-fruited thorn' of North America," Bellmark heard the visitor remarking. "Both the flowers and the berries are wonderfully good. Do you think that you would permit me to choose the spot for it, Mrs Bellmark?" Bellmark joined them in the hall and was introduced. "We mustn't waste any time," he suggested. "There is very little light left." "True," agreed Carrados. "And Coccinea requires deep digging." They walked through the house, and turning to the right passed into the region of the vegetable garden. Carrados and Elsie led the way, the blind man carrying the tree, while Bellmark went to his outhouse for the required tools. "We will direct our operations from here," said Carrados, when they were half-way along the walk. "You told me of a thin iron pipe that you had traced to somewhere in the middle of the garden. We must locate the end of it exactly." "My rosary!" sighed Elsie, with premonition of disaster, when she had determined the spot as exactly as she could. "Oh, Mr Carrados!" "I am sorry, but it might be worse," said Carrados inflexibly. "We only require to find the elbow-joint. Mr Bellmark will investigate with as little disturbance as possible." For five minutes Bellmark made trials with a pointed iron. Then he cleared away the soil of a small circle and at about a foot deep exposed a broken inch pipe. "The fountain," announced Carrados, when he had examined it. "You have the compass, Mr Bellmark?" "Rather a small one," admitted Bellmark. "Never mind, you are a mathematician. I want you to strike a line due east." The reel and cord came into play and an adjustment was finally made from the broken pipe to a position across the vegetable garden. "Now a point nine yards, nine feet and nine inches along it." "My onion bed!" cried Elsie tragically. "Yes; it is really serious this time," agreed Carrados. "I want a hole a yard across, digging here. May we proceed?" Elsie remembered the words of her uncle's letter--or what she imagined to be his letter--and possibly the preamble of selecting the spot had impressed her. "Yes, I suppose so. Unless," she added hopefully, "the turnip bed will do instead? They are not sown yet." "I am afraid that nowhere else in the garden will do," replied Carrados. Bellmark delineated the space and began to dig. After clearing to about a foot deep he paused. "About deep enough, Mr Carrados?" he inquired. "Oh, dear no," replied the blind man. "I am two feet down," presently reported the digger. "Deeper!" was the uncompromising response. Another six inches were added and Bellmark stopped to rest. "A little more and it won't matter which way up we plant Coccinea," he remarked. "That is the depth we are aiming for," replied Carrados. Elsie and her husband exchanged glances. Then Bellmark drove his spade through another layer of earth. "Three feet," he announced, when he had cleared it. Carrados advanced to the very edge of the opening. "I think that if you would loosen another six inches with the fork we might consider the ground prepared," he decided. Bellmark changed his tools and began to break up the soil. Presently the steel prongs grated on some obstruction. "Gently," directed the blind watcher. "I think you will find a half-pound cocoa tin at the end of your fork." "Well, how on earth you spotted that----!" was wrung from Bellmark admiringly, as he cleared away the encrusting earth. "But I believe you are about right." He threw up the object to his wife, who was risking a catastrophe in her eagerness to miss no detail. "Anything in it besides soil, Elsie?" "She cannot open it yet," remarked Carrados. "It is soldered down." "Oh, I say," protested Bellmark. "It is perfectly correct, Roy. The lid is soldered on." They looked at each other in varying degrees of wonder and speculation. Only Carrados seemed quite untouched. "Now we may as well replace the earth," he remarked. "Fill it all up again?" asked Bellmark. "Yes; we have provided a thoroughly disintegrated subsoil. That is the great thing. A depth of six inches is sufficient merely for the roots." There was only one remark passed during the operation. "I think I should plant the tree just over where the tin was," Carrados suggested. "You might like to mark the exact spot." And there the hawthorn was placed. Bellmark, usually the most careful and methodical of men, left the tools where they were, in spite of a threatening shower. Strangely silent, Elsie led the way back to the house and taking the men into the drawing-room switched on the light. "I think you have a tin opener, Mrs Bellmark?" Elsie, who had been waiting for him to speak, almost jumped at the simple inquiry. Then she went into the next room and returned with the bull-headed utensil. "Here it is," she said, in a voice that would have amused her at any other time. "Mr Bellmark will perhaps disclose our find." Bellmark put the soily tin down on Elsie's best table-cover without eliciting a word of reproach, grasped it firmly with his left hand, and worked the opener round the top. "Only paper!" he exclaimed, and without touching the contents he passed the tin into Carrados's hands. The blind man dexterously twirled out a little roll that crinkled pleasantly to the ear, and began counting the leaves with a steady finger. "They're bank-notes!" whispered Elsie in an awestruck voice. She caught sight of a further detail. "Bank-notes for a hundred pounds each. And there are dozens of them!" "Fifty, there should be," dropped Carrados between his figures. "Twenty-five, twenty-six----" "Good God," murmured Bellmark; "that's five thousand pounds!" "Fifty," concluded Carrados, straightening the edges of the sheaf. "It is always satisfactory to find that one's calculations are exact." He detached the upper ten notes and held them out. "Mrs Bellmark, will you accept one thousand pounds as a full legal discharge of any claim that you may have on this property?" "Me--I?" she stammered. "But I have no right to any in any circumstances. It has nothing to do with us." "You have an unassailable moral right to a fair proportion, because without you the real owners would never have seen a penny of it. As regards your legal right"--he took out the thin pocket-book and extracting a business-looking paper spread it open on the table before them--"here is a document that concedes it. 'In consideration of the valuable services rendered by Elsie Bellmark, etc., etc., in causing to be discovered and voluntarily surrendering the sum of five thousand pounds deposited and not relinquished by Alexis Metrobe, late of, etc., etc., deceased, Messrs Binstead & Polegate, solicitors, of 77a Bedford Row, acting on behalf of the administrator and next-of-kin of the said etc., etc., do hereby'--well, that's what they do. Signed, witnessed and stamped at Somerset House." "I suppose I shall wake presently," said Elsie dreamily. "It was for this moment that I ventured to suggest the third requirement necessary to bring our enterprise to a successful end," said Carrados. "Oh, how thoughtful of you!" cried Elsie. "Roy, the champagne." Five minutes later Carrados was explaining to a small but enthralled audience. "The late Alexis Metrobe was a man of peculiar character. After seeing a good deal of the world and being many things, he finally embraced spiritualism, and in common with some of its most pronounced adherents he thenceforward abandoned what we should call 'the common-sense view.' "A few years ago, by the collation of the Book of Revelations, a set of Zadkiel's Almanacs, and the complete works of Mrs Mary Baker Eddy, Metrobe discovered that the end of the world would take place on the tenth of October 1910. It therefore became a matter of urgent importance in his mind to ensure pecuniary provision for himself for the time after the catastrophe had taken place." "I don't understand," interrupted Elsie. "Did he expect to survive it?" "You cannot understand, Mrs Bellmark, because it is fundamentally incomprehensible. We can only accept the fact by the light of cases which occasionally obtain prominence. Metrobe did not expect to survive, but he was firmly convinced that the currency of this world would be equally useful in the spirit-land into which he expected to pass. This view was encouraged by a lady medium at whose feet he sat. She kindly offered to transmit to his banking account in the Hereafter, without making any charge whatever, any sum that he cared to put into her hands for the purpose. Metrobe accepted the idea but not the offer. His plan was to deposit a considerable amount in a spot of which he alone had knowledge, so that he could come and help himself to it as required." "But if the world had come to an end----?" "Only the material world, you must understand, Mrs Bellmark. The spirit world, its exact impalpable counterpart, would continue as before and Metrobe's hoard would be spiritually intact and available. That is the prologue. "About a month ago there appeared a certain advertisement in a good many papers. I noticed it at the time and three days ago I had only to refer to my files to put my hand on it at once. It reads: "'Alexis Metrobe. Any servant or personal attendant of the late Alexis Metrobe of Fountain Court, Groat's Heath, possessing special knowledge of his habits and movements may hear of something advantageous on applying to Binstead & Polegate, 77a Bedford Row, W.C.' "The solicitors had, in fact, discovered that five thousand pounds' worth of securities had been realized early in 1910. They readily ascertained that Metrobe had drawn that amount in gold out of his bank immediately after, and there the trace ended. He died six months later. There was no hoard of gold and not a shred of paper to show where it had gone, yet Metrobe lived very simply within his income. The house had meanwhile been demolished but there was no hint or whisper of any lucky find. "Two inquirers presented themselves at 77a Bedford Row. They were informed of the circumstances and offered a reward, varying according to the results, for information that would lead to the recovery of the money. They are both described as thoughtful, slow-spoken men. Each heard the story, shook his head, and departed. The first caller proved to be John Foster, the ex-butler. On the following day Mr Irons, formerly gardener at the Court, was the applicant. "I must now divert your attention into a side track. In the summer of 1910 Metrobe published a curious work entitled 'The Flame beyond the Dome.' In the main it is an eschatological treatise, but at the end he tacked on an epilogue, which he called 'The Fable of the Chameleon.' It is even more curious than the rest and with reason, for under the guise of a speculative essay he gives a cryptic account of the circumstances of the five thousand pounds and, what is more important, details the exact particulars of its disposal. His reason for so doing is characteristic of the man. He was conscious by experience that he possessed an utterly treacherous memory, and having had occasion to move the treasure from one spot to another he feared that when the time came his bemuddled shade would be unable to locate it. For future reference, therefore, he embodied the details in his book, and to make sure that plenty of copies should be in existence he circulated it by the only means in his power--in other words, he gave a volume to everyone he knew and to a good many people whom he didn't. "So far I have dealt with actualities. The final details are partly speculative but they are essentially correct. Metrobe conveyed his gold to Fountain Court, obtained a stout oak coffer for it, and selected a spot _west_ of the fountain. He chose a favourable occasion for burying it, but by some mischance Irons came on the scene. Metrobe explained the incident by declaring that he was burying a favourite parrot. Irons thought nothing particular about it then, although he related the fact to the butler, and to others, in evidence of the general belief that 'the old cock was quite barmy.' But Metrobe himself was much disturbed by the accident. A few days later he dug up the box. In pursuance of his new plan he carried his gold to the Bank of England and changed it into these notes. Then transferring the venue to one due _east_ of the fountain, he buried them in this tin, satisfied that the small space it occupied would baffle the search of anyone not in possession of the exact location." "But, I say!" exclaimed Mr Bellmark. "Gold might remain gold, but what imaginable use could be made of bank-notes after the end of the world?" "That is a point of view, no doubt. But Metrobe, in spite of his foreign name, was a thorough Englishman. The world might come to an end, but he was satisfied that somehow the Bank of England would ride through it all right. I only suggest that. There is much that we can only guess." "That is all there is to know, Mr Carrados?" "Yes. Everything comes to an end, Mrs Bellmark. I sent my car away to call for me at eight. Eight has struck. That is Harris announcing his arrival." He stood up, but embarrassment and indecision marked the looks and movements of the other two. "How can we possibly take all this money, though?" murmured Elsie, in painful uncertainty. "It is entirely your undertaking, Mr Carrados. It is the merest fiction bringing me into it at all." "Perhaps in the circumstances," suggested Bellmark nervously--"you remember the circumstances, Elsie?--Mr Carrados would be willing to regard it as a loan----" "No, no!" cried Elsie impulsively. "There must be no half measures. We know that a thousand pounds would be nothing to Mr Carrados, and he knows that a thousand pounds are everything to us." Her voice reminded the blind man of the candle-snuffing recital. "We will take this great gift, Mr Carrados, quite freely, and we will not spoil the generous satisfaction that you must have in doing a wonderful and a splendid service by trying to hedge our obligation." "But what can we ever do to thank Mr Carrados?" faltered Bellmark mundanely. "Nothing," said Elsie simply. "That is it." "But I think that Mrs Bellmark has quite solved that," interposed Carrados. THE GAME PLAYED IN THE DARK "It's a funny thing, sir," said Inspector Beedel, regarding Mr Carrados with the pensive respect that he always extended towards the blind amateur, "it's a funny thing, but nothing seems to go on abroad now but what you'll find some trace of it here in London if you take the trouble to look." "In the right quarter," contributed Carrados. "Why, yes," agreed the inspector. "But nothing comes of it nine times out of ten, because it's no one's particular business to look here or the thing's been taken up and finished from the other end. I don't mean ordinary murders or single-handed burglaries, of course, but"--a modest ring of professional pride betrayed the quiet enthusiast--"real First-Class Crimes." "The State Antonio Five per cent. Bond Coupons?" suggested Carrados. "Ah, you are right, Mr Carrados." Beedel shook his head sadly, as though perhaps on that occasion someone ought to have looked. "A man has a fit in the inquiry office of the Agent-General for British Equatoria, and two hundred and fifty thousand pounds' worth of faked securities is the result in Mexico. Then look at that jade fylfot charm pawned for one-and-three down at the Basin and the use that could have been made of it in the Kharkov 'ritual murder' trial." "The West Hampstead Lost Memory puzzle and the Baripur bomb conspiracy that might have been smothered if one had known." "Quite true, sir. And the three children of that Chicago millionaire--Cyrus V. Bunting, wasn't it?--kidnapped in broad daylight outside the New York Lyric and here, three weeks later, the dumb girl who chalked the wall at Charing Cross. I remember reading once in a financial article that every piece of foreign gold had a string from it leading to Threadneedle Street. A figure of speech, sir, of course, but apt enough, I don't doubt. Well, it seems to me that every big crime done abroad leaves a finger-print here in London--if only, as you say, we look in the right quarter." "And at the right moment," added Carrados. "The time is often the present; the place the spot beneath our very noses. We take a step and the chance has gone for ever." The inspector nodded and contributed a weighty monosyllable of sympathetic agreement. The most prosaic of men in the pursuit of his ordinary duties, it nevertheless subtly appealed to some half-dormant streak of vanity to have his profession taken romantically when there was no serious work on hand. "No; perhaps not 'for ever' in one case in a thousand, after all," amended the blind man thoughtfully. "This perpetual duel between the Law and the Criminal has sometimes appeared to me in the terms of a game of cricket, inspector. Law is in the field; the Criminal at the wicket. If Law makes a mistake--sends down a loose ball or drops a catch--the Criminal scores a little or has another lease of life. But if _he_ makes a mistake--if he lets a straight ball pass or spoons towards a steady man--he is done for. His mistakes are fatal; those of the Law are only temporary and retrievable." "Very good, sir," said Mr Beedel, rising--the conversation had taken place in the study at The Turrets, where Beedel had found occasion to present himself--"very apt indeed. I must remember that. Well, sir, I only hope that this 'Guido the Razor' lot will send a catch in our direction." The 'this' delicately marked Inspector Beedel's instinctive contempt for Guido. As a craftsman he was compelled, on his reputation, to respect him, and he had accordingly availed himself of Carrados's friendship for a confabulation. As a man--he was a foreigner: worse, an Italian, and if left to his own resources the inspector would have opposed to his sinuous flexibility those rigid, essentially Britannia-metal, methods of the Force that strike the impartial observer as so ponderous, so amateurish and conventional, and, it must be admitted, often so curiously and inexplicably successful. The offence that had circuitously brought "il Rasojo" and his "lot" within the cognizance of Scotland Yard outlines the kind of story that is discreetly hinted at by the society paragraphist of the day, politely disbelieved by the astute reader, and then at last laid indiscreetly bare in all its details by the inevitable princessly "Recollections" of a generation later. It centred round an impending royal marriage in Vienna, a certain jealous "Countess X." (here you have the discretion of the paragrapher), and a document or two that might be relied upon (the aristocratic biographer will impartially sum up the contingencies) to play the deuce with the approaching nuptials. To procure the evidence of these papers the Countess enlisted the services of Guido, as reliable a scoundrel as she could probably have selected for the commission. To a certain point--to the abstraction of the papers, in fact--he succeeded, but it was with pursuit close upon his heels. There was that disadvantage in employing a rogue to do work that implicated roguery, for whatever moral right the Countess had to the property, her accomplice had no legal right whatever to his liberty. On half-a-dozen charges at least he could be arrested on sight in as many capitals of Europe. He slipped out of Vienna by the Nordbahn with his destination known, resourcefully stopped the express outside Czaslau and got away across to Chrudim. By this time the game and the moves were pretty well understood in more than one keenly interested quarter. Diplomacy supplemented justice and the immediate history of Guido became that of a fox hunted from covert to covert with all the familiar earths stopped against him. From Pardubitz he passed on to Glatz, reached Breslau and went down the Oder to Stettin. Out of the liberality of his employer's advances he had ample funds to keep going, and he dropped and rejoined his accomplices as the occasion ruled. A week's harrying found him in Copenhagen, still with no time to spare, and he missed his purpose there. He crossed to Malmo by ferry, took the connecting night train to Stockholm and the same morning sailed down the Saltsjon, ostensibly bound for Obo, intending to cross to Revel and so get back to central Europe by the less frequented routes. But in this move again luck was against him and receiving warning just in time, and by the mysterious agency that had so far protected him, he contrived to be dropped from the steamer by boat among the islands of the crowded Archipelago, made his way to Helsingfors and within forty-eight hours was back again on the Frihavnen with pursuit for the moment blinked and a breathing-time to the good. To appreciate the exact significance of these wanderings it is necessary to recall the conditions. Guido was not zigzagging a course about Europe in an aimless search for the picturesque, still less inspired by any love of the melodramatic. To him every step was vital, each tangent or rebound the necessary outcome of his much-badgered plans. In his pocket reposed the papers for which he had run grave risks. The price agreed upon for the service was sufficiently lavish to make the risks worth taking time after time; but in order to consummate the transaction it was necessary that the booty should be put into his employer's hand. Half-way across Europe that employer was waiting with such patience as she could maintain, herself watched and shadowed at every step. The Countess X. was sufficiently exalted to be personally immune from the high-handed methods of her country's secret service, but every approach to her was tapped. The problem was for Guido to earn a long enough respite to enable him to communicate his position to the Countess and for her to go or to reach him by a trusty hand. Then the whole fabric of intrigue could fall to pieces, but so far Guido had been kept successfully on the run and in the meanwhile time was pressing. "They lost him after the _Hutola_," Beedel reported, in explaining the circumstances to Max Carrados. "Three days later they found that he'd been back again in Copenhagen but by that time he'd flown. Now they're without a trace except the inference of these 'Orange peach blossom' agonies in _The Times_. But the Countess has gone hurriedly to Paris; and Lafayard thinks it all points to London." "I suppose the Foreign Office is anxious to oblige just now?" "I expect so, sir," agreed Beedel, "but, of course, my instructions don't come from that quarter. What appeals to _us_ is that it would be a feather in our caps--they're still a little sore up at the Yard about Hans the Piper." "Naturally," assented Carrados. "Well, I'll see what I can do if there is real occasion. Let me know anything, and, if you see your chance yourself, come round for a talk if you like on--to-day's Wednesday?--I shall be in at any rate on Friday evening." Without being a precisian, the blind man was usually exact in such matters. There are those who hold that an engagement must be kept at all hazard: men who would miss a death-bed message in order to keep literal faith with a beggar. Carrados took lower, if more substantial, ground. "My word," he sometimes had occasion to remark, "is subject to contingencies, like everything else about me. If I make a promise it is conditional on nothing which seems more important arising to counteract it. That, among men of sense, is understood." And, as it happened, something did occur on this occasion. He was summoned to the telephone just before dinner on Friday evening to receive a message personally. Greatorex, his secretary, had taken the call, but came in to say that the caller would give him nothing beyond his name--Brebner. The name was unknown to Carrados, but such incidents were not uncommon, and he proceeded to comply. "Yes," he responded; "I am Max Carrados speaking. What is it?" "Oh, it is you, sir, is it? Mr Brickwill told me to get to you direct." "Well, you are all right. Brickwill? Are you the British Museum?" "Yes. I am Brebner in the Chaldean Art Department. They are in a great stew here. We have just found out that someone has managed to get access to the Second Inner Greek Room and looted some of the cabinets there. It is all a mystery as yet." "What is missing?" asked Carrados. "So far we can only definitely speak of about six trays of Greek coins--a hundred to a hundred and twenty, roughly." "Important?" The line conveyed a caustic bark of tragic amusement. "Why, yes, I should say so. The beggar seems to have known his business. All fine specimens of the best period. Syracuse--Messana--Croton-- Amphipolis. Eumenes--Evainetos--Kimons. The chief quite wept." Carrados groaned. There was not a piece among them that he had not handled lovingly. "What are you doing?" he demanded. "Mr Brickwill has been to Scotland Yard, and, on advice, we are not making it public as yet. We don't want a hint of it to be dropped anywhere, if you don't mind, sir." "That will be all right." "It was for that reason that I was to speak with you personally. We are notifying the chief dealers and likely collectors to whom the coins, or some of them, may be offered at once if it is thought that we haven't found it out yet. Judging from the expertness displayed in the selection, we don't think that there is any danger of the lot being sold to a pawnbroker or a metal-dealer, so that we are running very little real risk in not advertising the loss." "Yes; probably it is as well," replied Carrados. "Is there anything that Mr Brickwill wishes me to do?" "Only this, sir; if you are offered a suspicious lot of Greek coins, or hear of them, would you have a look--I mean ascertain whether they are likely to be ours, and if you think they are communicate with us and Scotland Yard at once." "Certainly," replied the blind man. "Tell Mr Brickwill that he can rely on me if any indication comes my way. Convey my regrets to him and tell him that I feel the loss quite as a personal one.... I don't think that you and I have met as yet, Mr Brebner?" "No, sir," said the voice diffidently, "but I have looked forward to the pleasure. Perhaps this unfortunate business will bring me an introduction." "You are very kind," was Carrados's acknowledgment of the compliment. "Any time ... I was going to say that perhaps you don't know my weakness, but I have spent many pleasant hours over your wonderful collection. That ensures the personal element. Good-bye." Carrados was really disturbed by the loss although his concern was tempered by the reflection that the coins would inevitably in the end find their way back to the Museum. That their restitution might involve ransom to the extent of several thousand pounds was the least poignant detail of the situation. The one harrowing thought was that the booty might, through stress or ignorance, find its way into the melting-pot. That dreadful contingency, remote but insistent, was enough to affect the appetite of the blind enthusiast. He was expecting Inspector Beedel, who would be full of his own case, but he could not altogether dismiss the aspects of possibility that Brebner's communication opened before his mind. He was still concerned with the chances of destruction and a very indifferent companion for Greatorex, who alone sat with him, when Parkinson presented himself. Dinner was over but Carrados had remained rather longer than his custom, smoking his mild Turkish cigarette in silence. "A lady wishes to see you, sir. She said you would not know her name, but that her business would interest you." The form of message was sufficiently unusual to take the attention of both men. "You don't know her, of course, Parkinson?" inquired his master. For just a second the immaculate Parkinson seemed tongue-tied. Then he delivered himself in his most ceremonial strain. "I regret to say that I cannot claim the advantage, sir," he replied. "Better let me tackle her, sir," suggested Greatorex with easy confidence. "It's probably a sub." The sportive offer was declined by a smile and a shake of the head. Carrados turned to his attendant. "I shall be in the study, Parkinson. Show her there in three minutes. You stay and have another cigarette, Greatorex. By that time she will either have gone or have interested me." In three minutes' time Parkinson threw open the study door. "The lady, sir," he announced. Could he have seen, Carrados would have received the impression of a plainly, almost dowdily, dressed young woman of buxom figure. She wore a light veil, but it was ineffective in concealing the unattraction of the face beneath. The features were swart and the upper lip darkened with the more than incipient moustache of the southern brunette. Worse remained, for a disfiguring rash had assailed patches of her skin. As she entered she swept the room and its occupant with a quiet but comprehensive survey. "Please take a chair, Madame. You wished to see me?" The ghost of a demure smile flickered about her mouth as she complied, and in that moment her face seemed less uncomely. Her eye lingered for a moment on a cabinet above the desk, and one might have noticed that her eye was very bright. Then she replied. "You are Signor Carrados, in--in the person?" Carrados made his smiling admission and changed his position a fraction--possibly to catch her curiously pitched voice the better. "The great collector of the antiquities?" "I do collect a little," he admitted guardedly. "You will forgive me, Signor, if my language is not altogether good. When I live at Naples with my mother we let boardings, chiefly to Inglish and Amerigans. I pick up the words, but since I marry and go to live in Calabria my Inglish has gone all red--no, no, you say, rusty. Yes, that is it; quite rusty." "It is excellent," said Carrados. "I am sure that we shall understand one another perfectly." The lady shot a penetrating glance but the blind man's expression was merely suave and courteous. Then she continued: "My husband is of name Ferraja--Michele Ferraja. We have a vineyard and a little property near Forenzana." She paused to examine the tips of her gloves for quite an appreciable moment. "Signor," she burst out, with some vehemence, "the laws of my country are not good at all." "From what I hear on all sides," said Carrados, "I am afraid that your country is not alone." "There is at Forenzana a poor labourer, Gian Verde of name," continued the visitor, dashing volubly into her narrative. "He is one day digging in the vineyard, the vineyard of my husband, when his spade strikes itself upon an obstruction. 'Aha,' says Gian, 'what have we here?' and he goes down upon his knees to see. It is an oil jar of red earth, Signor, such as was anciently used, and in it is filled with silver money. "Gian is poor but he is wise. Does he call upon the authorities? No, no; he understands that they are all corrupt. He carries what he has found to my husband for he knows him to be a man of great honour. "My husband also is of brief decision. His mind is made up. 'Gian,' he says, 'keep your mouth shut. This will be to your ultimate profit.' Gian understands, for he can trust my husband. He makes a sign of mutual implication. Then he goes back to the spade digging. "My husband understands a little of these things but not enough. We go to the collections of Messina and Naples and even Rome and there we see other pieces of silver money, similar, and learn that they are of great value. They are of different sizes but most would cover a lira and of the thickness of two. On the one side imagine the great head of a pagan deity; on the other--oh, so many things I cannot remember what." A gesture of circumferential despair indicated the hopeless variety of design. "A biga or quadriga of mules?" suggested Carrados. "An eagle carrying off a hare, a figure flying with a wreath, a trophy of arms? Some of those perhaps?" "_Si, si bene_," cried Madame Ferraja. "You understand, I perceive, Signor. We are very cautious, for on every side is extortion and an unjust law. See, it is even forbidden to take these things out of the country, yet if we try to dispose of them at home they will be seized and we punished, for they are _tesoro trovato_, what you call treasure troven and belonging to the State--these coins which the industry of Gian discovered and which had lain for so long in the ground of my husband's vineyard." "So you brought them to England?" "_Si_, Signor. It is spoken of as a land of justice and rich nobility who buy these things at the highest prices. Also my speaking a little of the language would serve us here." "I suppose you have the coins for disposal then? You can show them to me?" "My husband retains them. I will take you, but you must first give _parola d'onore_ of an English Signor not to betray us, or to speak of the circumstance to another." Carrados had already foreseen this eventuality and decided to accept it. Whether a promise exacted on the plea of treasure trove would bind him to respect the despoilers of the British Museum was a point for subsequent consideration. Prudence demanded that he should investigate the offer at once and to cavil over Madame Ferraja's conditions would be fatal to that object. If the coins were, as there seemed little reason to doubt, the proceeds of the robbery, a modest ransom might be the safest way of preserving irreplaceable treasures, and in that case Carrados could offer his services as the necessary intermediary. "I give you the promise you require, Madame," he accordingly declared. "It is sufficient," assented Madame. "I will now take you to the spot. It is necessary that you alone should accompany me, for my husband is so distraught in this country, where he understands not a word of what is spoken, that his poor spirit would cry 'We are surrounded!' if he saw two strangers approach the house. Oh, he is become most dreadful in his anxiety, my husband. Imagine only, he keeps on the fire a cauldron of molten lead and he would not hesitate to plunge into it this treasure and obliterate its existence if he imagined himself endangered." "So," speculated Carrados inwardly. "A likely precaution for a simple vine-grower of Calabria! Very well," he assented aloud, "I will go with you alone. Where is the place?" Madame Ferraja searched in the ancient purse that she discovered in her rusty handbag and produced a scrap of paper. "People do not understand sometimes my way of saying it," she explained. "_Sette_, Herringbone----" "May I----?" said Carrados, stretching out his hand. He took the paper and touched the writing with his finger-tips. "Oh yes, 7 Heronsbourne Place. That is on the edge of Heronsbourne Park, is it not?" He transferred the paper casually to his desk as he spoke and stood up. "How did you come, Madame Ferraja?" Madame Ferraja followed the careless action with a discreet smile that did not touch her voice. "By motor bus--first one then another, inquiring at every turning. Oh, but it was interminable," sighed the lady. "My driver is off for the evening--I did not expect to be going out--but I will 'phone up a taxi and it will be at the gate as soon as we are." He despatched the message and then, turning to the house telephone, switched on to Greatorex. "I'm just going round to Heronsbourne Park," he explained. "Don't stay, Greatorex, but if anyone calls expecting to see me, they can say that I don't anticipate being away more than an hour." Parkinson was hovering about the hall. With quite novel officiousness he pressed upon his master a succession of articles that were not required. Over this usually complacent attendant the unattractive features of Madame Ferraja appeared to exercise a stealthy fascination, for a dozen times the lady detected his eyes questioning her face and a dozen times he looked guiltily away again. But his incongruities could not delay for more than a few minutes the opening of the door. "I do not accompany you, sir?" he inquired, with the suggestion plainly tendered in his voice that it would be much better if he did. "Not this time, Parkinson." "Very well, sir. Is there any particular address to which we can telephone in case you are required, sir?" "Mr Greatorex has instructions." Parkinson stood aside, his resources exhausted. Madame Ferraja laughed a little mockingly as they walked down the drive. "Your man-servant thinks I may eat you, Signor Carrados," she declared vivaciously. Carrados, who held the key of his usually exact attendant's perturbation--for he himself had recognized in Madame Ferraja the angelic Nina Brun, of the Sicilian tetradrachm incident, from the moment she opened her mouth--admitted to himself the humour of her audacity. But it was not until half-an-hour later that enlightenment rewarded Parkinson. Inspector Beedel had just arrived and was speaking with Greatorex when the conscientious valet, who had been winnowing his memory in solitude, broke in upon them, more distressed than either had ever seen him in his life before, and with the breathless introduction: "It was the ears, sir! I have her ears at last!" poured out his tale of suspicion, recognition and his present fears. In the meanwhile the two objects of his concern had reached the gate as the summoned taxicab drew up. "Seven Heronsbourne Place," called Carrados to the driver. "No, no," interposed the lady, with decision, "let him stop at the beginning of the street. It is not far to walk. My husband would be on the verge of distraction if he thought in the dark that it was the arrival of the police;--who knows?" "Brackedge Road, opposite the end of Heronsbourne Place," amended Carrados. Heronsbourne Place had the reputation, among those who were curious in such matters, of being the most reclusive residential spot inside the four-mile circle. To earn that distinction it was, needless to say, a cul-de-sac. It bounded one side of Heronsbourne Park but did not at any point of its length give access to that pleasance. It was entirely devoted to unostentatious little houses, something between the villa and the cottage, some detached and some in pairs, but all possessing the endowment of larger, more umbrageous gardens than can generally be secured within the radius. The local house agent described them as "delightfully old-world" or "completely modernized" according to the requirement of the applicant. The cab was dismissed at the corner and Madame Ferraja guided her companion along the silent and deserted way. She had begun to talk with renewed animation, but her ceaseless chatter only served to emphasize to Carrados the one fact that it was contrived to disguise. "I am not causing you to miss the house with looking after me--No. 7, Madame Ferraja?" he interposed. "No, certainly," she replied readily. "It is a little farther. The numbers are from the other end. But we are there. _Ecco!_" She stopped at a gate and opened it, still guiding him. They passed into a garden, moist and sweet-scented with the distillate odours of a dewy evening. As she turned to relatch the gate the blind man endeavoured politely to anticipate her. Between them his hat fell to the ground. "My clumsiness," he apologized, recovering it from the step. "My old impulses and my present helplessness, alas, Madame Ferraja!" "One learns prudence by experience," said Madame sagely. She was scarcely to know, poor lady, that even as she uttered this trite aphorism, under cover of darkness and his hat, Mr Carrados had just ruined his signet ring by blazoning a golden "7" upon her garden step to establish its identity if need be. A cul-de-sac that numbered from the closed end seemed to demand some investigation. "Seldom," he replied to her remark. "One goes on taking risks. So we are there?" Madame Ferraja had opened the front door with a latchkey. She dropped the latch and led Carrados forward along the narrow hall. The room they entered was at the back of the house, and from the position of the road it therefore overlooked the park. Again the door was locked behind them. "The celebrated Mr Carrados!" announced Madame Ferraja, with a sparkle of triumph in her voice. She waved her hand towards a lean, dark man who had stood beside the door as they entered. "My husband." "Beneath our poor roof in the most fraternal manner," commented the dark man, in the same derisive spirit. "But it is wonderful." "The even more celebrated Monsieur Dompierre, unless I am mistaken?" retorted Carrados blandly. "I bow on our first real meeting." "You knew!" exclaimed the Dompierre of the earlier incident incredulously. "Stoker, you were right and I owe you a hundred lire. Who recognized you, Nina?" "How should I know?" demanded the real Madame Dompierre crossly. "This blind man himself, by chance." "You pay a poor compliment to your charming wife's personality to imagine that one could forget her so soon," put in Carrados. "And you a Frenchman, Dompierre!" "You knew, Monsieur Carrados," reiterated Dompierre, "and yet you ventured here. You are either a fool or a hero." "An enthusiast--it is the same thing as both," interposed the lady. "What did I tell you? What did it matter if he recognized? You see?" "Surely you exaggerate, Monsieur Dompierre," contributed Carrados. "I may yet pay tribute to your industry. Perhaps I regret the circumstance and the necessity but I am here to make the best of it. Let me see the things Madame has spoken of, and then we can consider the detail of their price, either for myself or on behalf of others." There was no immediate reply. From Dompierre came a saturnine chuckle and from Madame Dompierre a titter that accompanied a grimace. For one of the rare occasions in his life Carrados found himself wholly out of touch with the atmosphere of the situation. Instinctively he turned his face towards the other occupant of the room, the man addressed as "Stoker," whom he knew to be standing near the window. "This unfortunate business _has_ brought me an introduction," said a familiar voice. For one dreadful moment the universe stood still round Carrados. Then, with the crash and grind of overwhelming mental tumult, the whole strategy revealed itself, like the sections of a gigantic puzzle falling into place before his eyes. There had been no robbery at the British Museum! That plausible concoction was as fictitious as the intentionally transparent tale of treasure trove. Carrados recognized now how ineffective the one device would have been without the other in drawing him--how convincing the two together--and while smarting at the humiliation of his plight he could not restrain a dash of admiration at the ingenuity--the accurately conjectured line of inference--of the plot. It was again the familiar artifice of the cunning pitfall masked by the clumsily contrived trap just beyond it. And straightway into it he had blundered! "And this," continued the same voice, "is Carrados, Max Carrados, upon whose perspicuity a government--only the present government, let me in justice say--depends to outwit the undesirable alien! My country; O my country!" "Is it really Monsieur Carrados?" inquired Dompierre in polite sarcasm. "Are you sure, Nina, that you have not brought a man from Scotland Yard instead?" "_Basta!_ he is here; what more do you want? Do not mock the poor sightless gentleman," answered Madame Dompierre, in doubtful sympathy. "That is exactly what I was wondering," ventured Carrados mildly. "I am here--what more do you want? Perhaps you, Mr Stoker----?" "Excuse me. 'Stoker' is a mere colloquial appellation based on a trifling incident of my career in connection with a disabled liner. The title illustrates the childish weakness of the criminal classes for nicknames, together with their pitiable baldness of invention. My real name is Montmorency, Mr Carrados--Eustace Montmorency." "Thank you, Mr Montmorency," said Carrados gravely. "We are on opposite sides of the table here to-night, but I should be proud to have been with you in the stokehold of the _Benvenuto_." "That was pleasure," muttered the Englishman. "This is business." "Oh, quite so," agreed Carrados. "So far I am not exactly complaining. But I think it is high time to be told--and I address myself to you--why I have been decoyed here and what your purpose is." Mr Montmorency turned to his accomplice. "Dompierre," he remarked, with great clearness, "why the devil is Mr Carrados kept standing?" "Ah, oh, heaven!" exclaimed Madame Dompierre with tragic resignation, and flung herself down on a couch. "_Scusi_," grinned the lean man, and with burlesque grace he placed a chair for their guest's acceptance. "Your curiosity is natural," continued Mr Montmorency, with a cold eye towards Dompierre's antics, "although I really think that by this time you ought to have guessed the truth. In fact, I don't doubt that you have guessed, Mr Carrados, and that you are only endeavouring to gain time. For that reason--because it will perhaps convince you that we have nothing to fear--I don't mind obliging you." "Better hasten," murmured Dompierre uneasily. "Thank you, Bill," said the Englishman, with genial effrontery. "I won't fail to report your intelligence to the Rasojo. Yes, Mr Carrados, as you have already conjectured, it is the affair of the Countess X. to which you owe this inconvenience. You will appreciate the compliment that underlies your temporary seclusion, I am sure. When circumstances favoured our plans and London became the inevitable place of meeting, you and you alone stood in the way. We guessed that you would be consulted and we frankly feared your intervention. You were consulted. We know that Inspector Beedel visited you two days ago and he has no other case in hand. Your quiescence for just three days had to be obtained at any cost. So here you are." "I see," assented Carrados. "And having got me here, how do you propose to keep me?" "Of course that detail has received consideration. In fact we secured this furnished house solely with that in view. There are three courses before us. The first, quite pleasant, hangs on your acquiescence. The second, more drastic, comes into operation if you decline. The third--but really, Mr Carrados, I hope you won't oblige me even to discuss the third. You will understand that it is rather objectionable for me to contemplate the necessity of two able-bodied men having to use even the smallest amount of physical compulsion towards one who is blind and helpless. I hope you will be reasonable and accept the inevitable." "The inevitable is the one thing that I invariably accept," replied Carrados. "What does it involve?" "You will write a note to your secretary explaining that what you have learned at 7 Heronsbourne Place makes it necessary for you to go immediately abroad for a few days. By the way, Mr Carrados, although this is Heronsbourne Place it is _not_ No. 7." "Dear, dear me," sighed the prisoner. "You seem to have had me at every turn, Mr Montmorency." "An obvious precaution. The wider course of giving you a different street altogether we rejected as being too risky in getting you here. To continue: To give conviction to the message you will direct your man Parkinson to follow by the first boat-train to-morrow, with all the requirements for a short stay, and put up at Mascot's, as usual, awaiting your arrival there." "Very convincing," agreed Carrados. "Where shall I be in reality?" "In a charming though rather isolated bungalow on the south coast. Your wants will be attended to. There is a boat. You can row or fish. You will be run down by motor car and brought back to your own gate. It's really very pleasant for a few days. I've often stayed there myself." "Your recommendation carries weight. Suppose, for the sake of curiosity, that I decline?" "You will still go there but your treatment will be commensurate with your behaviour. The car to take you is at this moment waiting in a convenient spot on the other side of the park. We shall go down the garden at the back, cross the park, and put you into the car--anyway." "And if I resist?" The man whose pleasantry it had been to call himself Eustace Montmorency shrugged his shoulders. "Don't be a fool," he said tolerantly. "You know who you are dealing with and the kind of risks we run. If you call out or endanger us at a critical point we shall not hesitate to silence you effectively." The blind man knew that it was no idle threat. In spite of the cloak of humour and fantasy thrown over the proceedings, he was in the power of coolly desperate men. The window was curtained and shuttered against sight and sound, the door behind him locked. Possibly at that moment a revolver threatened him; certainly weapons lay within reach of both his keepers. "Tell me what to write," he asked, with capitulation in his voice. Dompierre twirled his mustachios in relieved approval. Madame laughed from her place on the couch and picked up a book, watching Montmorency over the cover of its pages. As for that gentleman, he masked his satisfaction by the practical business of placing on the table before Carrados the accessories of the letter. "Put into your own words the message that I outlined just now." "Perhaps to make it altogether natural I had better write on a page of the notebook that I always use," suggested Carrados. "Do you wish to make it natural?" demanded Montmorency, with latent suspicion. "If the miscarriage of your plan is to result in my head being knocked--yes, I do," was the reply. "Good!" chuckled Dompierre, and sought to avoid Mr Montmorency's cold glance by turning on the electric table-lamp for the blind man's benefit. Madame Dompierre laughed shrilly. "Thank you, Monsieur," said Carrados, "you have done quite right. What is light to you is warmth to me--heat, energy, inspiration. Now to business." He took out the pocket-book he had spoken of and leisurely proceeded to flatten it down upon the table before him. As his tranquil, pleasant eyes ranged the room meanwhile it was hard to believe that the shutters of an impenetrable darkness lay between them and the world. They rested for a moment on the two accomplices who stood beyond the table, picked out Madame Dompierre lolling on the sofa on his right, and measured the proportions of the long, narrow room. They seemed to note the positions of the window at the one end and the door almost at the other, and even to take into account the single pendent electric light which up till then had been the sole illuminant. "You prefer pencil?" asked Montmorency. "I generally use it for casual purposes. But not," he added, touching the point critically, "like this." Alert for any sign of retaliation, they watched him take an insignificant penknife from his pocket and begin to trim the pencil. Was there in his mind any mad impulse to force conclusions with that puny weapon? Dompierre worked his face into a fiercer expression and touched reassuringly the handle of his knife. Montmorency looked on for a moment, then, whistling softly to himself, turned his back on the table and strolled towards the window, avoiding Madame Nina's pursuant eye. Then, with overwhelming suddenness, it came, and in its form altogether unexpected. Carrados had been putting the last strokes to the pencil, whittling it down upon the table. There had been no hasty movement, no violent act to give them warning; only the little blade had pushed itself nearer and nearer to the electric light cord lying there ... and suddenly and instantly the room was plunged into absolute darkness. "To the door, Dom!" shouted Montmorency in a flash. "I am at the window. Don't let him pass and we are all right." "I am here," responded Dompierre from the door. "He will not attempt to pass," came the quiet voice of Carrados from across the room. "You are now all exactly where I want you. You are both covered. If either moves an inch, I fire--and remember that I shoot by sound, not sight." "But--but what does it mean?" stammered Montmorency, above the despairing wail of Madame Dompierre. "It means that we are now on equal terms--three blind men in a dark room. The numerical advantage that you possess is counterbalanced by the fact that you are out of your element--I am in mine." "Dom," whispered Montmorency across the dark space, "strike a match. I have none." "I would not, Dompierre, if I were you," advised Carrados, with a short laugh. "It might be dangerous." At once his voice seemed to leap into a passion. "Drop that matchbox," he cried. "You are standing on the brink of your grave, you fool! Drop it, I say; let me hear it fall." A breath of thought--almost too short to call a pause--then a little thud of surrender sounded from the carpet by the door. The two conspirators seemed to hold their breath. "That is right." The placid voice once more resumed its sway. "Why cannot things be agreeable? I hate to have to shout, but you seem far from grasping the situation yet. Remember that I do not take the slightest risk. Also please remember, Mr Montmorency, that the action even of a hair-trigger automatic scrapes slightly as it comes up. I remind you of that for your own good, because if you are so ill-advised as to think of trying to pot me in the dark, that noise gives me a fifth of a second start of you. Do you by any chance know Zinghi's in Mercer Street?" "The shooting gallery?" asked Mr Montmorency a little sulkily. "The same. If you happen to come through this alive and are interested you might ask Zinghi to show you a target of mine that he keeps. Seven shots at twenty yards, the target indicated by four watches, none of them so loud as the one you are wearing. He keeps it as a curiosity." "I wear no watch," muttered Dompierre, expressing his thought aloud. "No, Monsieur Dompierre, but you wear a heart, and that not on your sleeve," said Carrados. "Just now it is quite as loud as Mr Montmorency's watch. It is more central too--I shall not have to allow any margin. That is right; breathe naturally"--for the unhappy Dompierre had given a gasp of apprehension. "It does not make any difference to me, and after a time holding one's breath becomes really painful." "Monsieur," declared Dompierre earnestly, "there was no intention of submitting you to injury, I swear. This Englishman did but speak within his hat. At the most extreme you would have been but bound and gagged. Take care: killing is a dangerous game." "For you--not for me," was the bland rejoinder. "If you kill me you will be hanged for it. If I kill you I shall be honourably acquitted. You can imagine the scene--the sympathetic court--the recital of your villainies--the story of my indignities. Then with stumbling feet and groping hands the helpless blind man is led forward to give evidence. Sensation! No, no, it isn't really fair but I can kill you both with absolute certainty and Providence will be saddled with all the responsibility. Please don't fidget with your feet, Monsieur Dompierre. I know that you aren't moving but one is liable to make mistakes." "Before I die," said Montmorency--and for some reason laughed unconvincingly in the dark--"before I die, Mr Carrados, I should really like to know what has happened to the light. That, surely, isn't Providence?" "Would it be ungenerous to suggest that you are trying to gain time? You ought to know what has happened. But as it may satisfy you that I have nothing to fear from delay, I don't mind telling you. In my hand was a sharp knife--contemptible, you were satisfied, as a weapon; beneath my nose the 'flex' of the electric lamp. It was only necessary for me to draw the one across the other and the system was short-circuited. Every lamp on that fuse is cut off and in the distributing-box in the hall you will find a burned-out wire. You, perhaps--but Monsieur Dompierre's experience in plating ought to have put him up to simple electricity." "How did you know that there is a distributing-box in the hall?" asked Dompierre, with dull resentment. "My dear Dompierre, why beat the air with futile questions?" replied Max Carrados. "What does it matter? Have it in the cellar if you like." "True," interposed Montmorency. "The only thing that need concern us now----" "But it is in the hall--nine feet high," muttered Dompierre in bitterness. "Yet he, this blind man----" "The only thing that need concern us," repeated the Englishman, severely ignoring the interruption, "is what you intend doing in the end, Mr Carrados?" "The end is a little difficult to foresee," was the admission. "So far, I am all for maintaining the _status quo_. Will the first grey light of morning find us still in this impasse? No, for between us we have condemned the room to eternal darkness. Probably about daybreak Dompierre will drop off to sleep and roll against the door. I, unfortunately mistaking his intention, will send a bullet through---- Pardon, Madame, I should have remembered--but pray don't move." "I protest, Monsieur----" "Don't protest; just sit still. Very likely it will be Mr Montmorency who will fall off to sleep the first after all." "Then we will anticipate that difficulty," said the one in question, speaking with renewed decision. "We will play the last hand with our cards upon the table if you like. Nina, Mr Carrados will not injure you whatever happens--be sure of that. When the moment comes you will rise----" "One word," put in Carrados with determination. "My position is precarious and I take no risks. As you say, I cannot injure Madame Dompierre, and you two men are therefore my hostages for her good behaviour. If she rises from the couch you, Dompierre, fall. If she advances another step Mr Montmorency follows you." "Do nothing rash, _carissima_," urged her husband, with passionate solicitude. "You might get hit in place of me. We will yet find a better way." "You dare not, Mr Carrados!" flung out Montmorency, for the first time beginning to show signs of wear in this duel of the temper. "He dare not, Dompierre. In cold blood and unprovoked! No jury would acquit you!" "Another who fails to do you justice, Madame Nina," said the blind man, with ironic gallantry. "The action might be a little high-handed, one admits, but when you, appropriately clothed and in your right complexion, stepped into the witness-box and I said: 'Gentlemen of the jury, what is my crime? That I made Madame Dompierre a widow!' can you doubt their gratitude and my acquittal? Truly my countrymen are not all bats or monks, Madame." Dompierre was breathing with perfect freedom now, while from the couch came the sounds of stifled emotion, but whether the lady was involved in a paroxysm of sobs or of laughter it might be difficult to swear. * * * * * It was perhaps an hour after the flourish of the introduction with which Madame Dompierre had closed the door of the trap upon the blind man's entrance. The minutes had passed but the situation remained unchanged, though the ingenuity of certainly two of the occupants of the room had been tormented into shreds to discover a means of turning it to their advantage. So far the terrible omniscience of the blind man in the dark and the respect for his markmanship with which his coolness had inspired them, dominated the group. But one strong card yet remained to be played, and at last the moment came upon which the conspirators had pinned their despairing hopes. There was the sound of movement in the hall outside, not the first about the house, but towards the new complication Carrados had been strangely unobservant. True, Montmorency had talked rather loudly, to carry over the dangerous moments. But now there came an unmistakable step and to the accomplices it could only mean one thing. Montmorency was ready on the instant. "Down, Dom!" he cried, "throw yourself down! Break in, Guido. Break in the door. We are held up!" There was an immediate response. The door, under the pressure of a human battering-ram, burst open with a crash. On the threshold the intruders--four or five in number--stopped starkly for a moment, held in astonishment by the extraordinary scene that the light from the hall, and of their own bull's-eyes, revealed. Flat on their faces, to present the least possible surface to Carrados's aim, Dompierre and Montmorency lay extended beside the window and behind the door. On the couch, with her head buried beneath the cushions, Madame Dompierre sought to shut out the sight and sound of violence. Carrados--Carrados had not moved, but with arms resting on the table and fingers placidly locked together he smiled benignly on the new arrivals. His attitude, compared with the extravagance of those around him, gave the impression of a complacent modern deity presiding over some grotesque ceremonial of pagan worship. "So, Inspector, you could not wait for me, after all?" was his greeting. THE RIVERSIDE PRESS LIMITED, EDINBURGH TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE Minor punctuation errors have been repaired. An inconsistency in the spelling of Messina/Messana (pages 269 and 274) has been retained. The following amendments have been made: Page 250--Carados amended to Carrados--""True," agreed Carrados." Page 251--urning amended to turning--"They walked through the house, and turning to the right ..." 
31721	----	ELIZABETH GILBERT [Illustration: Logo] [Illustration: (signed) Elizabeth Gilbert] ELIZABETH GILBERT AND HER WORK FOR THE BLIND BY FRANCES MARTIN AUTHOR OF 'ANGÉLIQUE ARNAULD,' ETC. ETC. London MACMILLAN AND CO. AND NEW YORK 1887 _All rights reserved_ INTRODUCTION There is a sacred privacy in the life of a blind person. It is led apart from much of the ordinary work of the world, and is unaffected by many external incidents which help to make up the important events of other lives. It is passed in the shade and not in the open sunlight of eager activity. At first we should be disposed to say that such a life, with its inevitable restrictions and compulsory isolation, could offer little of public interest, and might well remain unchronicled. But in the rare cases where blindness, feeble health, and suffering form scarcely any bar to activity; where they are not only borne with patience, but by heroic effort are compelled to minister to great aims, we are eager to learn the secret of such a life. No details connected with it are devoid of interest; and we are stimulated, encouraged, and strengthened by seeing obstacles overcome which appeared insurmountable, and watching triumph where we dreaded defeat. Elizabeth Gilbert was born at a time when kindly and intelligent men and women could gravely implore "the Almighty" to "take away" a child merely because it was blind; when they could argue that to teach the blind to read, or to attempt to teach them to work, was to fly in the face of Providence. And her whole life was given to the endeavour to overcome prejudice and superstition; to show that blindness, though a great privation, is not a disqualification. Blind men and women can learn, labour, and fulfil all the duties of life if their fellow-men are merciful and helpful, and God is on the side of all those who work honestly for themselves and others. The life of Elizabeth Gilbert and her work for the blind are so inextricably interwoven, that it is impossible to tell one without constant reference to the other. A small cellar in Holborn at a rent of eighteen-pence a week was enough for a beginning. But before her death she could point to large and well-appointed workshops in almost every city of England, where blind men and women are employed, where tools have been invented by or modified for them, where agencies have been established for the sale of their work. Her example has encouraged, her influence has promoted the work which she never relinquished throughout life. Nothing was too great for her to attempt on behalf of the blind, nothing seemed impossible of achievement. One success suggested a new endeavour, one achievement opened a door for fresh effort. Free from any taint of selfishness or self-seeking, all her thought was for others, for the helpless, the poor, the friendless. Her pity was boundless. There was nothing she could not forgive the blind, no error, no ignorance, no crime. She knew the desolation of their lives, their friendless condition, and understood how they might sink down and down in the darkness because no friendly hand was held out to them. And yet she was unsparing to herself, and a rigid censor of her own motive and conduct. This she could not fail to be, because she believed in her vocation as from God. She never doubted that her work had been appointed for her; she never wavered in her belief that strength given by God, supported her. She knew that she was the servant of God, sent by Him to minister to others. This knowledge was joy; but it made her inexorable and inflexible towards herself. There are but few incidents in her peaceful life. It was torn by no doubt, distracted by no apprehensions, it reached none of the heights of human happiness, and sounded none of the depths of despair. If there were unfulfilled hopes, aspirations, affections, they left no bitterness, no sense of disappointment. A beautiful life and helpful; for who need despair where she overcame and gained so great a victory? The materials for recording the history of Elizabeth Gilbert are scanty, but all that were possessed by her sisters and friends have been placed at my disposal. My love for her, and our long friendship, have enabled me, I hope, to interpret them aright. FRANCES MARTIN. _October 1887._ CONTENTS CHAPTER I PAGE CHILDHOOD 1 CHAPTER II IN THE DARK 14 CHAPTER III LITTLE BLOSSOM 27 CHAPTER IV WHAT THE PROPHETESS FORESAW 39 CHAPTER V THE PALACE GARDEN 51 CHAPTER VI A SENSE OF LOSS 70 CHAPTER VII THE BLIND MANAGER 82 CHAPTER VIII ROYAL BOUNTY 94 CHAPTER IX REMOVING STUMBLING-BLOCKS 110 CHAPTER X TRIALS AND TEMPTATIONS 129 CHAPTER XI REFLECTIONS AND SUGGESTIONS 142 CHAPTER XII HER DIARY 150 CHAPTER XIII THE FEAR OF GOD AND NO OTHER 158 CHAPTER XIV EVERYDAY LIFE 175 CHAPTER XV TIME OF TROUBLE 192 CHAPTER XVI THE FIRST LOSS 212 CHAPTER XVII HOW THE WORK WENT ON 221 CHAPTER XVIII BLIND CHILDREN OF THE POOR 238 CHAPTER XIX IN TIME OF NEED 249 CHAPTER XX THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW 259 CHAPTER XXI LIFE IN THE SICK-ROOM 279 CHAPTER XXII TWILIGHT 293 CHAPTER XXIII THE END 304 CHAPTER I CHILDHOOD "Moving about in worlds not realised."--WORDSWORTH. Elizabeth Margaretta Maria, born on the 7th of August 1826, was the second daughter and third of the eleven children of Ashhurst Turner Gilbert, Principal of Brasenose College, Oxford, afterwards Bishop of Chichester, and of Mary Ann his wife, only surviving child of the Rev. Robert Wintle, Vicar of Culham, near Abingdon. The little girl, Bessie, as she was always called, was christened at St. Mary's Church, which is close to the old-fashioned house in High Street known as the Principal's Lodgings, in which Dr. Gilbert lived. "A fine handsome child, with flashing black eyes," she is said to have been; and then for three years we hear nothing more. There was a nest of little children in the nursery, and in the spring of 1829 a fifth baby was to be added to them. In the diary of the grandfather, Mr. Wintle, we find the following entries:-- 1829.--April 6. Little Elizabeth alarmingly ill with scarlet fever. " 7. Child very ill. " 8. Child somewhat better. " 18. Letter from Mary Ann [Mrs. Gilbert], stating that little Elizabeth had lost one eye. " 21. Went to Oxford. Little girl blind. July 9. Dr. Farre and Mr. Alexander say there is no chance of little Bessie seeing. And so the "flashing black eyes," scarcely opened upon the world, were closed for ever, and all memory of sight was very speedily obliterated. Mrs. Gilbert had not been allowed to nurse or even to see her little girl, who had been removed from the nursery to a north wing, stretching back and away from the house. It was the father who watched over and scarcely left her. Mrs. Gilbert believed that the child's recovery was owing to his unremitting care. Dr. Gilbert's common sense seems to have been in advance of the medical treatment of that period; and he insisted on open windows, change of bedding and clothing to suit the exigencies of the case. When the child was thought to be sinking, he took upon himself the responsibility of administering port wine; this may or may not have saved her life, it is certain she struggled through and survived a dangerous, almost fatal attack. But the handsome, healthy baby was sightless; one eye was entirely and the other partly destroyed, the throat ragged and certain to be always delicate, ears and nose also affected. A childhood of much suffering was inevitable--and then? It was the father who bore the first brunt of this sorrow. It was he who listened to the pathetic appeal of the little one, "Oh, nursie, light a candle," to her entreaty to be taken "out of the dark room," to the softly-whispered question, "If I am a _very_ good 'ittle girl may I see my dolly to-morrow?" He had been full of courage, hope, and resource at the most critical times, but he was broken-hearted now, and would rush weeping from the child's bedside. It was not until July, by that time a fifth baby was in the nursery, that the parents took their little Bessie to London, and there, as Mr. Wintle's diary tells, the case was pronounced to be hopeless. The renowned oculist of that day, Mr. Alexander, told them that there was no possibility of sight; the eyes were destroyed, the child was blind. Dr. Farre, whom they also consulted, showed much sympathy with the parents in their affliction, and they looked upon him as a friend raised up to advise and comfort them. Many years later they appealed to him on behalf of their blind child, and reminded him of the encouragement and help he had given them. It was doubtless he who suggested that blindness should be made as little as possible of a disability to the child, what other help could he give in such a case?--that she should be trained, educated, and treated like the other children; that she should share their pleasures and their experience, and should not be kept apart from the mistaken notion of shielding her from injury. It was with these views that the parents returned to Oxford, and it was these that they consistently carried out henceforward. There was no invention, no educational help for the blind which they did not inquire into and procure; but these were only used in the same way that one child might have one kind of pencil and another child another pencil. The sisters who were nearest her own age speak of Bessie as gay and happy, "so like the others that it is difficult to pick her out from them." Surviving friends who remember the Gilbert children, the _sisterhood_, as the eight little girls came ultimately to be called, say that the group is ineffaceably stamped upon the memory, but that there was nothing special to attract attention to the individual members of it. And yet the figure of the blind child does emerge, distinct and apart, and the reminiscences of youth and childhood are numerous enough to manifest the interest with which every part of her career was followed in her own family. The parents had decided that she was to be treated exactly like her sisters. When she came into a room they were not to give her a chair; she was to find one for herself. Dr. Gilbert specially could not endure to have it suggested that she could not do what the others did. "Let her try," he would say. So Bessie tried, and, ordinarily, succeeded. He was specially anxious that she should behave like the others at table, should be as particular in eating and drinking as they were, and should manage the food on her plate without offence to others. He encouraged her in ready repartee and swift intellectual insight. When the father joined his children in their walks it was always Bessie who took his hand. She invariably sat by him at breakfast, and when the children went in to dessert it was Bessie who sat by his side and poured out his glass of wine. "How do you know when it is full?" some one asked. "By the weight," she replied. The father, we may be sure, was training her in the transfer of the work of one sense to another, and helping her to supplement the lost eyesight by touch and sound, raising her up to the level of other children; and his initiative was followed in the family. A special tie between the father and his blind child was always recognised. If any favour was to be asked it was Bessie who was sent to the father, and also if any difficulty arose amongst the children they would say, "We will tell Bessie," "We will ask Bessie." There seems to have been no jealousy of her influence, no opposition to it. The sisters thought it her right to be first, and looked upon it as a great distinction, honour, and privilege to have a blind sister. It was their part to make her feel as little as possible the difference between herself and them, and to help her to be as independent as they were. She was taught to dress herself unaided as early as the other children. She was full of fun, and enjoyed a romping game; she would much rather risk being knocked over than allow any one to lead her by the hand when they were all at play. She was passionate as a child, liable to sudden violent outbursts of anger; and as there were a good many passionate children together, she was quite as often mixed up in a quarrel as any of the others. One incident remembered against her was that at seven or eight years old she seized one of the high schoolroom chairs and hurled it, or intended to do so, at a governess who had offended her. Another was that when she was somewhat younger, at the close of their daily walk, she and a little sister hurried on to enjoy the luxury of ringing the front door bell. It was just out of reach, and the little girls on tiptoe were straining to get at it. An undergraduate, passing by, thought to do them a kindness and pulled the bell. Bessie stamped with anger, and turned upon him a little blind passionate face: "Why did you do it? You knew I wanted to ring." "A most affectionate nature, unselfish, generous, but passionate and obstinate; so obstinate no one could turn her from the thing she had resolved on," says one of the sisters. In after life we find a temper under perfect control, and a will developed and trained to sweet firmness and unwavering endurance; but these showed themselves in the fitful irregularity of a somewhat wilful childhood. In accordance with the precept of her father, Bessie wanted to do everything that other children did. She _would_ try, and nothing but her own individual experience would convince her of the limitations of her powers. The fire and the kettle were great temptations to her. One day in the nursery at Oxford she tried to reach the kettle, slipped and fell in front of the fire, tried to save herself by grasping the hot bars of the grate, and the poor little hands were badly burnt. We may be sure how the parents would suffer with their blind child in such an accident, and yet they would not encourage a panic, or allow any unnecessary restrictions to be put upon her actions. A few years after scarlet fever the Gilbert children had measles. All memory of the occurrence would have faded out had it not been for Bessie. Her throat, as we have said, was ragged and impeded, and throughout life the only way in which she could swallow any liquid was in very small sips and with a curious little twist of nose and mouth. In after life she used to compare herself to Pascal, saying how much better her own case was, for Pascal was obliged to have his medicine warmed before he could sip it, whilst she could take hers cold. There are some who still remember how they pitied her when they saw Bessie sitting up in bed sipping a black draught, and they can recall the resolution with which she did it, and the conscientiousness with which she took all, to the last drop. Some twenty years later she was walking in the garden at Eversley with Charles Kingsley, and he said to her, "When you take medicine you drink it all up. I spill some on my frock, and then I have to take it over again." It was one of those swift intuitive glances of his; he saw in the delicate woman the same patient courage that had characterised the child. She had much suffering from her throat throughout life, and as a little girl was nearly choked by a lozenge. The noteworthy point of the incident is that in the wildest tumult of alarm of those around her, the child was quite calm. There was so little sense of her inferiority to others in early youth that it was only as the sisters grew up that they realised how much Bessie knew, and how much she could do, in spite of her blindness. As a child they all looked upon her as very clever. One of their Sunday amusements was to play at Sunday school, and Bessie was invariably made the mistress. For a long time she and her sister Fanny, little more than a year younger, were companions in their lessons, which were in every respect alike. Bessie's were read aloud to her; she learnt easily, her memory was good, and she made rapid progress. In French and German the grammar was read to her, and she worked the exercises verbally. The governess, Miss Lander, was devoted to her pupils, and specially interested in Bessie, so that she turned to account every hint and suggestion as to special methods for the blind. She drew threads across a piece of paper, which was fixed to a frame, and taught the child to write in the ordinary way. There was a box of raised letters which could be used for spelling lessons, and there was leaden type with raised figures for arithmetic lessons. The letters were arranged on an ordinary board; but the figures were placed in a grooved board. Now arithmetic was the most difficult and distasteful of all Bessie's lessons; the placing of the figures correctly was a very perplexing task, and the working of sums an intricate problem. But she did her duty and made her way steadily to compound division, a stage beyond which no woman was expected to advance fifty years ago. Miss Lander did her best to explain the various processes, but the sums, alas, were only too often wrong, and a passionate outburst would succeed the announcement of failure. That little episode of the chair was probably not unconnected with arithmetic. She was keenly interested in astronomical lessons, and the home-made orrery, which explained the relative position of sun, moon, and planets, was a source of unfailing interest. The little fingers fluttered over the planets and followed their movements with great delight. An eager, intelligent child, with parents and teachers all anxious to smoothe her way and remove difficulties, we need not wonder that youth was a happy time for her: "the brightest and happiest of all the children," she is said to have been. "The Principal's Lodgings," as the old-fashioned, rambling house in High Street, Oxford, was called, has no garden whatever. The front door opens into a dark hall; spacious cupboards to the right; to the left the dining-room; in front of you passages, doors, and two difficult staircases. There was no one, we are told, who had not fallen up or down these dark winding stairs except Bessie. On the first floor to the front, with five windows looking into High Street, is the drawing-room. This was divided, and one part of it was converted into a schoolroom. The Principal's study was on the same floor at the back of the house. What is known as the north wing stretches back, and has two or three small rooms which can easily be isolated. It was in them that Bessie was nursed through scarlet fever. There is also a south wing with excellent kitchens and good servants' rooms. On the second floor the space above the drawing-room and schoolroom was occupied by Mrs. Gilbert's room and the two nurseries; whilst a large bedroom at the back, away from the street and over the study, the spare room, was that in which all the children saw the light, and from which eleven of them successively emerged. The second and ninth were boys, and there were nine daughters. A little girl died in 1834, and is buried in the adjacent churchyard of St. Mary's. Bessie, who was eight years old, was taken into the room to bid farewell to her sister Gertrude, and laid her little hand upon her. She never forgot it; and would say in after years in a low tone of awe: "She was so cold." The impression produced on a sensitive organisation was so painful that she was never again taken into the chamber of death. There is a large "flat" or leaden roof above this "spare" room over the study, to which there is access from an adjacent passage; but this roof is too dangerous a place for a playground, and the children had none in or near the house. The south windows in the front look into High Street; an east window high up in the nursery looks out upon St. Mary's; and all the windows to the north at the back of the house look over walls, and houses, and chimney pots, and brick and mortar. The children played at home in ordinary times, but in the long vacation they played in the quadrangle, a grassy, treeless enclosure, but a very garden of delight to them. The favourite part of it was near the figures called "Cain and Abel," long since removed, and long since known not to have represented Cain and Abel, but to have been a copy of antique sculpture. There were grand games of hide and seek around "Cain and Abel," in which Bessie always joined. Sometimes the children dined in the College Hall during vacation, and were joined after dinner in the quadrangle by their friends amongst the Fellows of Brasenose, who all had a kind word for the little blind girl. She was also a special favourite with the College servants, and led, as it were, a charmed life, watched over by every one, and unconscious of their care. All memory of vision seems to have faded from her before she left the sick-room; but, taught by those around her, she soon began to take an imaginary interest in colour, and a very real one in form and texture. An old nurse is still alive who remembers making a pink frock for her when she was a child, her delight at its being pink, and her pleasure in stroking down the folds. In 1835 or 1836 the young Princess Victoria, with her mother the Duchess of Kent, visited Oxford. Bessie was amongst those who went to "see" them enter the city. Returning home she exclaimed, "Oh, mamma, I have seen the Duchess of Kent, and she had on a brown silk dress." The language is startling; but how else could the blind child express the impression she had received except by saying "I have seen." Throughout life she continued to say, "I have seen," and throughout life the words continued to represent a reality as clear and true to the blind as the facts of sight are to those who have eyes. Very early Bessie knew the songs of birds and delighted in them. Very early also she learned to love flowers. She liked to have them described, and to hear the minutest particulars about them. Nothing made her so happy as to gather them for herself. There were fields near Hincksey which the Gilberts called "The Happy Valley." Thither they resorted in the spring with baskets to gather forget-me-nots, the flowering rush, and other blossoms, which they prized highly. In all these expeditions Bessie was happy, and a source of happiness to others. The tender and reverent way in which she examined a flower, the little fluttering fingers touching every petal and bruising none, was a lesson never to be forgotten. Her youthful admiration of Wordsworth was chiefly based upon his love of flowers, but also upon personal knowledge. When she was about ten years old, Wordsworth went to Oxford to receive the honorary degree of D.C.L. from the University. He stayed with the Principal, in that large spare room we know of, and won Bessie's heart the first day by telling at the dinner-table how he had almost leapt off the coach in Bagley Wood to gather the little blue veronica. But she had a better reason for remembering that visit. One day she was in the drawing-room alone, and Wordsworth entered. For a moment he stood silent before the blind child. The little sensitive face, with its wondering, inquiring look, turned towards him. Then he gravely said, "Madam, I hope I do not disturb you." She never forgot that "Madam," grave, solemn, almost reverential. CHAPTER II IN THE DARK "Every morn and every night Some are born to sweet delight, Some are born to sweet delight, Some are born to endless night."--BLAKE. The Gilbert children had a very happy home. In Oxford they were constantly under the eyes of parents who loved them tenderly, and loved to have them at hand. The schoolroom was between drawing-room and study, the nurseries adjacent to the parents' bedroom. Mrs. Gilbert, a very handsome, large-hearted, attractive woman, was devoted to her husband, and gave him constant and loving care so long as she lived. She dearly loved her children; but she thought, though perhaps she was mistaken, that she liked boys better than girls; and she had so few boys! Husband and children were all the world to her; she was happy in their midst, full of plans for them, greatly preoccupied with their future, and looked up to and beloved by all. Dr. Gilbert was a schoolfellow of De Quincey, and in his _Confessions_[1] De Quincey thus speaks of him: "At this point, when the cause of Grotius seemed desperate, G----[2] (a boy whom subsequently I had reason to admire as equally courageous, truthful, and far-seeing) suddenly changed the whole field of view." And again referring to his leaving school, De Quincey writes: "To three inferior servants I found that I ought not to give less than one guinea each; so much therefore I left in the hands of G----[2], the most honourable and upright of boys." What weeks and months of anguish must have been passed by these parents, when the bright little three-year-old child was struck down into darkness, and the light of the "handsome black eyes" extinguished for ever. She was smitten into the ranks of the blind; and of the blind nearly sixty years ago, when their privation was a stigma, an affliction, "a punishment sent by the Almighty;" when even good and merciful people looked upon it as "rebellion" to endeavour to mitigate and alleviate the lot of those who lived in the dark. Bessie's parents did not and could not accept this view. They saw their child rise from her bed of sickness unchanged, though grievously maimed; but she was the same little Bessie who had been given to them bright and clever and happy, and by God's grace they resolved that she should never lose her appointed place in the family circle. From the very first they were, as we have seen, advised to educate her with her sisters. This advice they followed; and at the same time inquired in all directions as to the methods and material and implements which might give special help to their blind child. Packets of letters yellow with age, long paragraphs copied from old newspapers by Mrs. Gilbert and sent to people living in distant parts, accounts of apparatus, lists of inventions and suggestions bear constant and touching tribute to the loving care of a mother upon whose time and strength in that large young family there must have been so many demands. The surviving members of the family do not even remember by name many of those whose letters have been preserved; letters now valuable, not in themselves, but as showing that if Bessie Gilbert lived to do a great work on behalf of the blind, and did it, undaunted by obstacles and difficulty that might well have seemed beyond her strength, she did but inherit the strong will and indomitable courage, the power of endurance and devotion which characterised her parents. These letters throw much light upon the condition of the blind at the beginning of this century. One packet is specially interesting as the story of the successful effort of a person unknown, and without influence, to effect an improvement in a public institution. It may, probably it must, have been told in later years to Bessie herself; it would encourage her, and may encourage others, to persevere in efforts on behalf of those who are helpless and afflicted. Mrs. Wood, wife of the Rev. Peter Wood, Broadwater Rectory, Worthing, was interested in the condition of the blind. She had visited institutions in Zurich, in Paris, had heard of work being done on their behalf in Edinburgh, and was acquainted with the condition of the School for the Indigent Blind, St. George's Fields, London. She wrote in 1831 to Mr. Henry V. Lynes, Mr. Gaussen, Mr. Dodd, Mr. Pigou, Mr. Capel Cure, and other members of the Committee of the St. George's Fields School, begging them to inquire into the methods for teaching the blind to read, recently discovered, and at that time attracting attention. With her letter she sent specimens of books and other data to be submitted to the Committee. Mr. Gaussen, writing from the Temple, 12th March 1831, replies that he will have much pleasure in forwarding her excellent views, and that Mr. Vynes has secured the reference of her plan to the Committee; that it will be well considered, but for his own part he is bound to express the greatest doubt as to the result. He suggests that instead of teaching the blind to read there should be more reading aloud to them, "so as to stimulate their minds to more exertion, which in many cases is the source of the kind treatment they meet with." A brother of the Secretary, Mr. Dodd, writes that he also will do what he can, although he has heard that the benefit of the plan "is so limited that quite as much good may be accomplished by teaching the pupils to commit portions of Scripture to memory as by teaching them to read." Mr. Vynes informs Mrs. Wood that he has, at her request, attended the meeting of the Committee, that only two of the other gentlemen she had written to were present, Mr. Pigou and Mr. Gaussen. "The latter is not favourable to the plan, neither is Mr. Dodd, the Secretary." The gentlemen present who spoke were all "well satisfied with the amount of religious knowledge which their blind pupils already possess, so that I much fear they will take little trouble to increase it." He refers to a "rumour" that the "art of reading" has been introduced into the Edinburgh School for the Blind, but adds that the "Meeting did not seem inclined to give any credit to it;" and suggests that, if it is true, Mrs. Wood might let them hear more about it, as he had secured a reference of the whole matter to the consideration of the House Committee. Now Mrs. Wood was nothing daunted by these successive splashes of cold water. She wrote afresh to members of the Committee. She obtained facts from Edinburgh, and she wisely limited her appeal to a petition that the blind should be enabled to read the Scriptures for themselves. But whether at that time she recognised the fact or not, there can be no doubt that the whole question of what the blind could do _themselves_ would be opened by this step, and must be decided. Mr. Vynes writes to her again on the 29th March, and it is interesting to observe that a Committee in 1831 was very much the same sort of thing that it is now. Among the seven or eight gentlemen present I found Mr. Jackman, the Chaplain of the Institution, being the first time I had ever the pleasure of meeting him. Both Mr. Jackman and Mr. Dodd [the Secretary] affirm that these poor blind pupils are already as well instructed as it is possible they should be, under their afflicting circumstances. They are correctly moral in their general conduct, influenced by religious feelings and principles, with contented and pious minds. Mr. Jackman mentioned as a proof that they do think beyond the present moment, the average number who now participate at every celebration of the Lord's Supper is one or two and twenty, though formerly there had been but three or four. They can repeat a large portion of the Psalms, not merely the singing Psalms, but take the alternate verse of the reading version without requiring any prompting. And all the pupils have a variety of the most important texts strongly impressed upon their memories. Their memories are generally good, and they assure me they are fully exercised upon sound truths. These gentlemen are of opinion that more is to be learned by the ear than ever can be acquired by the fingers, and therefore see no advantage attending the new plan which can at all compensate the trouble and expense of introducing it. Two of the gentlemen present, Mr. Capel Cure and Mr. Meller, very handsomely supported your view of the subject, and recommended a trial to be made. At the same time they candidly confessed themselves quite unable to point out the best way, or indeed any way, to set about it; upon which the Committee very naturally threw the burthen upon me, or, my dear madam, you must allow me to say, rather upon you. I read to them the plan which you had sketched out, which, however, the Committee do not think very practicable. They will not seek out an idle linguist as you recommend; but if you will bring a qualified man to their door, with all appliances to boot--that is, all the books requisite for introducing the system, then they will be ready to treat with him. And here the matter rests for the present. "Here" probably the Committee expected it to rest. But not so Mrs. Wood, who reconsidered and amended her suggestion as to "an idle linguist." The next letter from Mr. Vynes, 15th April 1831, announces that Mr. Gall of Edinburgh "has offered to come to London to put our Committee in more complete possession of his plan, and to instruct some of our teachers gratuitously." The Sub-committee recommended that this offer should be accepted; the General Committee had resolved to adopt the recommendation. "They have also very properly," he continues, "agreed to reimburse Mr. Gall the expenses of his journey and of his necessary residence in London. The account which Mr. Gall has given of his invention is doubtless overcharged; it exhibits all the enthusiasm which generally attends all new discoveries. His estimate of the expense is somewhat vague. He requires very little _time_ to enable his poor blind pupils to read and to write as correctly, and almost as quickly, as the more fortunate poor who have the blessing of sight. However, if Mr. G. does but accomplish one-half of what he has promised, our Committee will be quite satisfied. "Thus far, then, I may congratulate you, my dear madam, on the successful result of your active and persevering exertions." After this there is a long pause; and the next letter from Mr. Vynes is dated Clapton, 24th August 1831. We can picture to ourselves the feelings with which Mrs. Wood would read it in the far-off Broadwater rectory. DEAR MADAM--I have now the pleasure of returning to you the various books and papers which you so kindly sent up for the inspection of the Committee of our Blind School, and have to give you our best thanks for the use of them. You will be pleased to hear this new system of reading and writing is making some progress in the London school. As a proof that the General Committee are satisfied, I will report to you the results of their meeting on the 13th of this month. They first voted fifty guineas to Mr. Gall as a compliment for the service he has already done to the Institution. But when Mr. G. was called in and acquainted with their vote, he at once, respectfully, but very positively, declined to accept of any remuneration for what he had done, saying his object was to introduce the new system to serve the poor blind and not himself. The Committee then elected Mr. Gall as Honorary Member of the Corporation, and requested the House Committee to find out (if possible) something acceptable to Mrs. Gall, and empowered them to present it to her. I mention all this in justice to Mr. Gall. It is indeed highly creditable to him, for we are told that he is by no means in affluent circumstances. Mr. Gall continues in almost daily attendance at the school, and will remain some short time longer, so anxious is he to establish his system permanently in this school. On the female side he has already pretty well succeeded; Miss Grove, the sub-matron, and also one of the blind inmates having qualified themselves to become teachers. On the male side, Mr. G. has hitherto been baffled, and therefore has asked the Committee for some extra aid. This matter is still under consideration.... On the whole, then, I think I may now venture to congratulate you, my dear madam, on the attainment of the object you have so much at heart--that these poor blind shall be enabled to read those oracles which will give them comfort in this world and lead them to perfect happiness hereafter. And thus cautiously and quietly, with the inevitable resistance of officials to any change, and the caution of a Committee on their guard against enthusiasm, and not sanguine as to results, an important change was inaugurated. Henceforward the blind were no longer to be treated as incurables in a hospital, capable of no instruction and able to do no more than commit to memory moral precepts and religious truths. They were to learn reading and writing, a door was set open that would never again be closed. Education was shown to be possible, and work would follow. In August 1832 Mrs. Gilbert received the copy of a letter written by Mr. Edward Lang, teacher of mathematics, St. Andrew Square, Edinburgh, to a Mr. Alexander Hay. Mr. Lang had invented a system of printing for the use of the blind, with simplifications of letters and the introduction of single signs for many "redundant sounds." He is in favour of these modifications, and adds: Were not the prejudice so strong in favour of ordinary spellings of words, I would, had I been engaged in the formation of such an alphabet, have innovated much more extensively. But words, like men, must carry their genealogy, not their qualifications, on their coats-of-arms; and though this arrangement conceals many obliquities of descent, and more than many real characters, it must be acquiesced in, since the law of prescription in this, as in many other cases, prevents the exercise of reason. He concludes: Most warmly do I recommend your whole system to the attention of all who feel interested in the diffusion of knowledge; and I trust that its advantages will soon be felt by those who were once consigned by barbarous laws, or by dark superstition, to destruction or to neglect, but who now are re-elevated to their own station through the light of a milder and nobler humanity. At the close of this year, 1832, a Mrs. Wingfield sent to Mrs. Gilbert a newspaper paragraph giving an account of a meeting of the Managers of the Blind Asylum, Edinburgh. After some routine business these managers had proceeded to examine the "nature and efficiency" of the books lately printed for the use of the blind. Some of the blind boys in the Asylum, who had been using the books for "only a few weeks," picked out words and letters and read "slowly but correctly." By repeated trials, and by varying the exercises, the directors were of opinion that the art promised to be of "the greatest practical utility to the blind." Mr. Gall also stated that the apparatus for writing to and by the blind was in a state of considerable forwardness. This paragraph Mrs. Gilbert copied and sent, on the 10th of January 1833, to her father's cousin, Mr. J. Wintle of Lincoln's Inn Fields, who had, as she learnt, a friend in Edinburgh. To this friend, Mr. Ellis, application was duly made, and he set about instituting inquiries which resulted, on the 13th of April 1833, in the despatch of a portentous epistle, such a letter as at that time was considered worthy of heavy postage. He had obtained for Mr. Wintle every possible scrap of information on the subject in question. Letters follow from him direct to Mrs. Gilbert, and on the 2d of November 1833 Mr. Ellis "presents his compliments, and, after many delays, is happy in being able at last to forward the articles he was commissioned to procure for Mrs. Gilbert's little girl." The following list shows how much had been done in two years:-- 1. Gall's First Book. Three other Lesson Books and the Gospel of St. John. 2. Hay's Alphabet and Lessons (Mr. Lang's friend), with outline sketch of Map. 3. The string alphabet, with a printed statement of its invention and use. 4. Seven brass types constructed on the principles of the string alphabet. 5. Several packets of metallic pieces representing the notes in music. Another letter preserved by Mrs. Gilbert was from a Mr. Richardson, of 11 Lothian Street, Edinburgh, to her uncle, Mr. Morrell, at that time staying in Edinburgh, dated 14th January 1837. It gives an account of the globes, maps, boards, etc., in use in the Edinburgh Asylum, and shows what rapid advance has been made since the little boys were examined by the managers in 1833. Mrs. Gilbert would learn not so much from the account of the things done, as the manner of doing them; from the explanation of the method of adapting ordinary maps and globes to the use of the blind, and of employing gum and sand and string and pieces of cork; the little holes in the map instead of the names of cities, and the movable pegs. All these hints were very valuable to her; and every one of them was turned to good account in the schoolroom at Oxford. In 1839 Mr. J. Wintle sends raised books from London. In 1840 he has gone, out of health, on a visit to his friend Mr. Ellis, Inverleith Row, Edinburgh. One of his first visits was to the Edinburgh Asylum, and he writes an account of it to Mrs. Gilbert, "in the hope of being useful to your daughter Bessie." He promises further information from Glasgow, which is, so he learns, "the fountain-head of all works for the blind, save those published in America," and he announces a copy of the New Testament as almost ready, price £2: 2s. It was ultimately procured by Mrs. Gilbert and presented to Bessie. And now we may lay aside the time-worn, yellow paper, the large and copious letters, the anxious inquiries and the willing replies. They did not, however, end at this period, they went on throughout the whole life of these good parents. There was no new invention, no new system into which they did not at once inquire, nothing that could be procured which they did not obtain for their child. But they never swerved from their original intention to educate Bessie at home in the schoolroom with her sisters. The apparatus which replaced pen and pencil and slate might differ, as slate differs from paper. She had to put her fingers on the globe upon which her sisters cast their eyes, and to feel the movements of the planets around the sun, in the orrery which gave her so much pleasure; but her lessons were given and learnt at the same time, and she lost none of the happiness and stimulating effect of companionship in work and play. There can be no doubt that she was influenced throughout life by her own early training, which had made it impossible for her to believe in the numerous so-called "disabilities" of the blind. Some of her friends thought that she had not an adequate notion of what these really were. Perhaps those who are born blind, or who have lost sight at so early an age that no memory of it remains, do not adequately realise their privation. Sight is to them a "fourth dimension," a something that it is absolutely impossible to realise. They can talk about it, but it is impossible for them to understand it. FOOTNOTES: [1] _Confessions of an English Opium Eater_, pp. 48 and 73, by Thomas de Quincey. Edinburgh, 1862. [2] Gilbert. CHAPTER III LITTLE BLOSSOM "What, were ye born to be An hour or half's delight, And so to bid good-night?"--HERRICK. Mr. Wintle gave his little grand-daughter a new name after her loss of sight. He called her "Little Blossom." She was never to develop into flower or fruit, he said, on account of her great affliction, and the limitations that it must entail. Miss Trotwood may have had a similar theory as to David Copperfield's Dora, but these were days before Dickens had written of Little Blossom. The theory was by no means adopted by Bessie's parents; and the name of Blossom was used by Mr. Wintle only. Dr. Kynaston, in lines addressed "to Bessie," in 1835, tells how his "soul" reproved "That friend, as once I heard him say, Oh, may it please Almighty God To take that child away!" We do not know who "that friend" was, who prayed for the removal, at nine years old, of a singularly happy and engaging child; but the prayer is indicative of the condition of the blind, the probable outlook for the child, and the point of view from which blindness was regarded even by people of culture and means. If such a one could pray for the death of a blind child, what would the poor do? Despite the "Blossom" theory, or perhaps because of it, Bessie was a great favourite with her grandfather. He liked to have her with him at Culham Vicarage. She often stayed there for weeks together, and would learn more about flowers and birds than she could do in Oxford. There was also a delightful companion and friend at Culham, the black pony, Toby. Bessie was a fearless little rider, and delighted in a gallop round the field. But Mr. Wintle would not trust her alone with Toby, and there was always a servant to walk or run by his side. The grandfather makes an entry in his diary as to Bessie's first ride, and adds that he "was much pleased with Blossom." It was at Culham that she was introduced to _Robinson Crusoe_. Mr. Wintle gave it to the servant who was to walk out with her, and who read aloud as she walked. Bessie was deeply interested, and would allow of no pause in the reading: "She kept her going all the time:" says a sister. Sometimes there were three or four little girls at Culham, and then in the evening, grandpapa read aloud to them James's _Naval History_. It was very little to their taste, and all but one paid little attention, or if attending, could remember or understand but little. When, however, the reading was ended, and grandpapa began to ask questions, it was Bessie who knew how the vessels were manned and rigged, the complement of men and guns, and all the details connected with the fitting out of a man-of-war. And again Mr. Wintle had good reason to be "much pleased with Blossom." The little girl learnt needlework with her sisters. She could hem and sew, but never liked doing either. A very neatly hemmed duster, done before she was ten years old, and presented to an aunt, is still preserved in the family. Knitting and crochet she liked better, and a knitted purse in bands of very bright colours has been kept unused by the friend to whom she gave it as a child. Her favourite occupation of this kind was the making of slender watch chains with fine silk on a little ivory frame. All her friends will remember these chains, which in many cases were an annual present. But needlework of any kind was always "against the grain." She liked any other occupation better. Perhaps the chief characteristic of early youth was her love of poetry and music. Wordsworth's poems, especially those that referred to flowers; Mary Howitt, Mrs. Hemans, these were her favourites. A sister says she cannot remember the time when Bessie was not in the habit of sitting down to the piano to improvise. She set Mary Howitt's "Sea Gull" to her own music before she was twelve years old. It was published at the time of the Irish famine, and realised £20, which she gave to the Famine Fund. Bessie's first music-mistress was the widow of an organist in Oxford, but when her talent for music was more pronounced she had lessons from Dr. Elvey, the brother of Sir George Elvey. Whilst she was learning a new piece, a sister would sit by her side and read the notes aloud. She quickly discovered if a single one had been omitted; and, as with _Robinson Crusoe_, she kept her reader "going all the time." But her enthusiasm and pleasure kindled the interest of those who certainly had a dry part of the work. Bessie was not the only blind child in Oxford. Dr. Hampden, afterwards Bishop of Hereford, had two blind daughters. The three blind children used often to meet and walk together; but Bessie preferred the companionship of the merry girls at home, in whose games she always shared. She did not bowl a hoop, however, and in formal walks she was the companion of the governess. Children's parties in Oxford were a source of much pleasure; she danced with girls, she was very fond of dancing, but seldom with boys. She wanted a little guiding, and the boys were possibly too shy to undertake this; certainly very few of them were disposed to try. Bessie's birthday was, for the Gilbert children, the festival of the year. This was owing partly to the fact that it fell in August, during the long vacation, the time associated with out-door games in the grassy quadrangle, whispered conferences near the mysterious and awe-inspiring Cain and Abel, with dinners in the Hall and visits in the schoolroom from friendly dons. There were three birthdays in August: a younger sister and a brother were also born in that month; all three were celebrated on the 7th, and Bessie was the "lady of the day." There was always a water party to Nuneham in the house-boat or the barge. On landing, the children would run to the top of a grassy slope and then slide and roll down the slippery grass. Bessie joined in this game with keen delight, untroubled by the silent watchfulness of a father, ever alert to protect her from danger, and ever anxious that she should be ignorant of special precautions on her behalf. Dr. Kynaston, "High Master of St. Paul's," and former Philological Lecturer of Christ Church, Oxford, was nearly always included in the birthday party, and was very fond of Bessie. When she was a very little child she was leaning far out of the window of the boat so as to put her hands in the water, and her father was alarmed. "I am holding her tight by the frock," said Dr. Kynaston. "Yes," replied the father, "but I must have something more solid than that held by." Of all these birthday parties, the most memorable to the blind child was that on which she was ten years old. The day was fine, every one was very good to her. Her special favourites, Dr. Kynaston and Mr. Bazely (father of Mr. Henry Bazely, of whom a short biography has recently appeared), were both present. A vase with a bouquet of the flowers she loved, mignonette, heliotrope, roses, geraniums, was presented to her. All her life she treasured those dried flowers and the little vase. But the thing that made this birthday memorable was that not only her music but her poems were beginning to receive consideration, and one written at this time was considered worthy of being copied and sent to her godmother, Miss Hales. A copy in her mother's writing is still extant, and may be read with interest: LINES WRITTEN AT TEN YEARS OLD. When morning appears, and night melts away, Then comes the bright, dull, or enlivening day; The dewdrops like pearls on the flowers are shining, But the sunbeams to dry them are quickly inclining. The sun now red peeps through the trees, And now there springs up a freshening breeze. The flowers which are by the sunbeams extended, Droop no more o'er their green stalks bended. All is cheerful and gay, at the dawn of the day, And March's high winds are flying away. A shower of rain now darkens the skies, A few people begin to open their eyes; It is early, 'tis dawn, 'tis the dawn of the day, And the darkness of night is fast gliding away. The child's verses are neither better nor worse than those of many a little versifier of her age, but they are remarkable because they are obviously untouched by elders, who could so easily have corrected rhythm and metre; they are genuine, and they are written by a child who had apparently forgotten that she had ever seen the light. She had learnt to love it for some occult and mysterious reason which she could not explain, perhaps for the physical effect which light exercises upon the human organism. She loved light, she loved nature, and from early childhood she loved beautiful scenery. Dreams were always a source of delight to her, and her dreams were a feature in her life. She would say that she constantly dreamt about beautiful landscapes. Did some memory of sight revisit her in dreams? "There were beautiful intuitions in her music," we are told. Had she "beautiful intuitions" as to sight? Had she, in her dreams, visions of the scenes that passed before her in those three first years of which she retained not the slightest recollection in her waking hours? Beautiful scenery gave her pleasure; there was always a response to any description of it. Once when a sister was describing mountains she said: "I don't want to know how high they are, how many hours it takes to climb them, and what they are made of. I want you to tell me if they make you afraid, if they make you happy, or," drawing herself up, "if they give you a kind of a proud feeling." In the April before this tenth birthday she had attempted to express in verse her feeling as to the light; and on this day three sonnets were addressed to her by Dr. Kynaston. What little girl would not be proud of such homage from a "High Master of St. Paul's," and so dear a friend? The sonnets appear in _Miscellaneous Poetry_, by Rev. Herbert Kynaston, M.A.,[3] and two of them are here given:-- TO BESSIE ON HER BIRTHDAY. And art thou ten years old? one half the time Is spent--oh say, thou heavenly-gifted child, How hast thou, then, those weary years beguiled-- That fills thy budding years to woman's prime. Thou stand'st midway, as on a height sublime, Sweet record here, sweet promise there as mild Of childish days, of girlhood undefiled, To lure thee on; heaven help thee now to climb With fairest hope, as erst, the onward part Of life's sad upland course that still is thine! Had I one wish, fresh gathered from the heart, To hang with votive sweets at friendship's shrine, I'd pray--and yet, methinks, if thou wert mine, I would not have thee other than thou art. THE SAME SUBJECT. Forgive the thought, but I have learnt to love What others deem privation; I have seen How more than recompensed thy loss has been, Dear gentle child! by Him who from above Guides thy dark steps; and I have yearned to prove The blessed influence, the joy serene, The store of heavenly peace, that thou dost glean From angels' steps, unseen, who round thee move. Yea, I have owed thee much; thou art a thing For sharpest grief to gather round, and grow To mellowness; where sorrow loves to cling, And tune to gospel strains the tears that flow In harshest discord, sullen murmuring, That will not learn the blessedness of woe. In this same year, 1836, Bessie took her first long journey away from home. Her father and mother had arranged to pay visits to some old friends, and they took with them the two eldest girls, Mary and Bessie. They stayed with the Bishop of Lincoln, Dr. Kaye, with an old college friend, Mr. Stephens, at Belgrave, Leicester, and with several other old college friends of the Principal's. They visited Matlock; and on her return Bessie described to the younger sisters the excitement of going into the caves, of crossing the Styx, and of listening to the blasting of rocks. It is recorded of her at this time that she never hesitated or shrank from anything required of her. She sat down in the boat, or stood up, or bent her head just as she was told to do. The loving care of the parents was not in vain, they saw their blind child fearless and happy, and well able to take the place due to her as second daughter. It is recorded that at Liverpool she was present for the first time at a really good concert, and that the music she then heard was a great stimulus to her, as well as a keen delight. Dr. Gilbert preached at Liverpool, and from Liverpool they went to Stockport. In the church at the latter place there was a brass band, the sudden braying of which was a shock to her nerves which Bessie never forgot. She was too young to dine or spend much time downstairs in the houses where they stayed, but she always remembered the kindness with which she was treated in schoolrooms and nurseries, and looked back upon these early visits with great pleasure. The family hurried back to Oxford on account of the unexpected death of Dr. Rowley before his term of office had expired, and Dr. Gilbert at once entered upon the duties of Vice-Chancellor of the University. Many little incidents connected with her father's tenure of office were a source of amusement to Bessie throughout life. The University marshal made daily reports to the Vice-Chancellor, and informed him of any disturbance. One morning he stated that he had found two men fighting near Wadham College and separated them. Some time afterwards he came upon them in another place and did not interfere. "And pray, why not?" asked the Vice-Chancellor. "Well, sir, you see, they were very comfortably at it." This story was repeated at the breakfast table and made a great impression upon Bessie. She told it and laughed over it throughout life. If she was seated near a table when telling it, she would push herself away with her two hands as if she wanted more room to laugh, a way she had when very much amused. It was also about the same time that the butler, standing one day by the open door, saw a freshman pursued by the proctor coming at full speed down the street. Seeing the open door the young man darted in, and rushed up the staircase. Silence for a few moments, and then peeping over the banisters the youth said in an urgent whisper, "Is he gone, is he gone?" Now, the humour of the situation was that whilst he was so eager to escape from the proctor, nothing but a thin partition separated him from the Vice-Chancellor in his study. We can picture to ourselves the butler's "Do you wish to see the Vice-Chancellor, sir?" and the hasty exit! Meanwhile the child Bessie returned to her poems, her songs, her improvisings at the piano, to lessons in the schoolroom, to that terrible frame and the leaden type and raised figures, and the sums which would not "come right"; to the brothers and sisters and the happy home life. But she too had seen something of the great world lying on the outside of Oxford, and could refer back to "my visit to the North." An old friend of the family remembers the first sight of Bessie as a girl of about twelve years old. She was in the Magdalen Gardens with a nurse and the little brother Tom, the youngest boy, of whom she was always very fond. She was standing apart on the grass; standing peaceful, motionless, with a sweet still face, and all the sad suggestion of the large darkened glasses that encased her eyes. The little boy picked daisies and took them to her and showed her the gold in the centre. She smiled as she took them, and her slender fingers fluttered about them. And the children, the flowers, the sunlight, and those beautiful gardens in the early summer, made a picture in which this friend always loved to enshrine her memory of "Little Blossom." FOOTNOTE: [3] Published by B. Fellowes, Ludgate Street, 1841. CHAPTER IV WHAT THE PROPHETESS FORESAW "Cette loi sainte, il faut s'y conformer Et la voici, toute âme y peut atteindre: Ne rien haïr, mon enfant; tout aimer Ou tout plaindre."--VICTOR HUGO. The early summer of 1838 was spent by the Vice-Chancellor and his family at Malvern. Bessie greatly enjoyed long walks on the hills, but either from over fatigue, or because the air was too keen for her, she began to suffer at that time from what she always spoke of as "my long headache." It was a headache that lasted many months and caused the parents almost as much suffering as the child. On their return to Oxford the family doctor was called in and promptly applied a blister to the back of the ears. The blister did no good; the child was often quite prostrate with pain, probably neuralgia, but the doctor was a man of resource. The diary of Mrs. Gilbert is instructive as to the treatment of such a case fifty years ago. The entry "Gave Bessie two grains of calomel," begins in August and is continued at short intervals throughout the month. "Blisters behind the ears, to be kept open," are added to the calomel in September. In October we have reached the more advanced stage of calomel blisters, black draught (to be sipped, poor child), and leeches. The treatment was continued, with additions, throughout November, and on the 21st of December Mrs. Gilbert makes the not very surprising entry, "Bessie was worse this evening." The parents were by this time alarmed; and the doctor acknowledged that he could do no more. Casting about for help, they bethought them of the physician whom they had seen in London some years previously, of his tenderness and sympathy. The rough draft of a letter written to him by Mrs. Gilbert still remains to testify to the grave consideration given by the parents to the adequate statement of the case, to their endeavour to recall it to his mind and to their acknowledgment of his previous kindness and courtesy. One point in their letter may be mentioned. "She is very fond of, and has good talents for music," writes the mother, "but her pain is so much increased by it that her music has had to be discontinued." Poor little girl! No privation could be greater. Of the answer sent by Dr. Farre there is no trace. But all drugs disappear from the records, and there is an account of "veratrine ointment," "a preparation of Hellebore known to Hippocrates," sent down from London, and needing so much care in the application that the Oxford doctor himself came every night to rub it on the child's brow. Early in 1839 she had quite recovered not only from the headache but from the effects of the remedies. The music lessons were resumed, and before long she began the study of the harp. A younger sister remembers sitting by her to teach the pieces note by note. Bessie found it also very easy to play by ear and learnt much in this way; but the harp was a difficult instrument, and the management of it always fatigued her. During her childhood, Cardinal, then the Rev. J. H. Newman was incumbent of St. Mary's, the church close to the house in High Street, and that which the family attended. Even up to the last days of her life Bessie used to say that she could not listen to a chapter in Isaiah, especially any of those read in Advent, without hearing the sound of his voice. Cardinal Newman mentions in his _Apologia_ that, on account of his doctrine and teaching, the Vice-Chancellor threatened no longer to allow his children to attend St. Mary's. But the children knew nothing of the proposed prohibition.[4] Augustus Short, afterwards Bishop of Adelaide, was one of Mr. Wintle's curates at Culham. He remembers Bessie as a child, and visited her for the last time when he was in England in 1884. Mr. Coxe, the late Librarian of the Bodleian, was another of the Culham curates, the friend of a lifetime, whose farewell letter to Bessie was written shortly before his own death in 1881. He lived in Oxford, and went over to Culham every Sunday. At first he was accompanied by his young wife, but Mrs. Coxe was speedily overtaken by the cares of a family and could not go with him. Mrs. Gilbert, with her warm, kind heart, took pity upon the lonely wife, and invited her to spend the Sundays with them. In this way she saw much of the _sisterhood_, the pretty name by which the eight girls were known. They generally walked out on Sunday afternoons, and when they reached a certain spot in Christ Church Meadows, Bessie would stop and say, "Here you have the best view of Christ Church Towers." Other friends of this and later times were Bishop Gray of Cape Town, Bishop Mackenzie, and Dr. Barnes, Canon of Christ Church. The Provost of Oriel, Dr. Hawkins, and Dr. Gilbert were great friends, and it was possibly on this account that Bessie was a special favourite with the Provost. Mrs. Gilbert's uncle, Mr. Wintle, was a fellow of St. John's. He was a wealthy bachelor, had a fine voice, sang well, and was very fond of the society of his great-nieces. The Gilberts were acquainted with nearly all the families of the heads of colleges in Oxford, and the handsome, clever little girls were favourites and were "made much of." When there was a dinner party at home they came in to dessert, and accompanied the ladies to the drawing-room, where Bessie would play and sing. She lived thus not merely in a world of ideas, but in the external world of facts, of things. When a friend once spoke of another lady as handsome, Bessie exclaimed, "Oh, Mrs. ----, with such a nose!" Many of the fellows of Brasenose College were frequent visitors at the Vice-Chancellor's Lodgings, and the old friends, Dr. Kynaston and Mr. Bazely, were constant as ever. They joined the girls in their walks, and paid frequent visits to the schoolroom, where the younger ones would hide their caps to prevent them from leaving. Bessie used to delight in these visits, and looked back upon them as the very sunshine of life at Oxford. Her poetry and music gained her much sympathy. At this time, when she was about fourteen, she wrote a poem on the violet which was much praised. At fifteen her intellectual activity was the most remarkable point in her character, whilst at the same time there was an equally remarkable absence of that rebellion against authority which marks an epoch in so many young lives. Boys and girls of that age begin to fret against the restrictions of childhood and youth; they endeavour to cast aside laws and restraints; they are eager to "live their own life" and to enjoy a freedom which they are all unfit to use. Bessie knew nothing of this, or rather, she knew it in a very modified, even attenuated form. The one extravagant desire which marked her adolescence, was to be allowed the privilege of pouring out tea! It was urged in vain that she would not know if cups were full or half full, that she could not give to each one what they wanted of tea or water, milk or sugar. Her reply was always the same, she would know by the weight. The decision of the parents, however, went against her, and she had her one small grievance. She did not "take turns" in making tea. In the summer of 1841 Bessie, with a sister of nearly her own age, and one of the little ones, went on a long visit to Culham. They took the harp with them and practised diligently. They read history together. Bessie gave daily lessons to her young sister, reading with her Scott's _Tales of a Grandfather_, and teaching the child to love them as she herself did. Whenever she had charge of a younger sister, poetry entered largely into her scheme of education, and the "little sister" still remembers the Scott, Wordsworth, and Mrs. Hemans, "Hymns for Childhood" which she learnt at this time. Bessie loved romantic ballads and stories. She was more imaginative than any of "the others;" and "the others" thought that the loss of sight acted upon her like the want of a drag upon a wheel, when the coach goes down hill. During this visit Bessie had such a constant craving and eager desire for books, that even in their walks she induced her sister to read aloud. They thus read Southey's _Curse of Kehama_, and she was so much excited by it that somewhat to the alarm of younger persons she went about repeating aloud "the words of that awful curse." There were plenty of books at Culham. Mr. Wintle interdicted two or three, but amongst the rest his grandchildren were at liberty to select. They picked out all that promised to be "most exciting," and this free pasture made the visit memorable. Bessie was still "Blossom" to her grandfather, a Blossom that he admired and loved, but Blossom only. Never was a Blossom whose words and deeds have been treasured in such loving hearts. "We looked upon her as a sort of prophetess;" and this view was confirmed by incidents that occurred in 1842. The sisters were walking together, and first one and then another suggested strange things that might happen. "Why, who knows," said Bessie, "in less than a month our house may be burnt down and we may be living in a palace!" Now within a month it is recorded that a rocket let off in the street, and badly aimed, went through the windows of the nursery in which several children were asleep. The governess happened to be in the room, and with great presence of mind seized the rocket and threw it back into the street. Now here was at any rate the possibility of a fire. Still more impressive was the fact that within the month Dr. Gilbert was appointed to the See of Chichester. They would really live in a palace. Much excitement and no little awe in the nursery, not so much because the father was a bishop as because Bessie was a prophetess. The bishop would be comparatively innocuous in the nursery, but who could tell what a prophetess might foresee! And so the pleasant Oxford life came to an end; and in spite of a prospective palace, the _sisterhood_ thought the change a calamity. Bessie specially disliked leaving her old friends, and her regret at parting from them did not diminish but increased with time. Doubtless in later years the inevitable restraint of her life lent an additional charm to the memory of her youth in Oxford. The constant solicitude of parents, friends, and sisters had kept from her in early days the knowledge of limitations; but in the time that was at hand she was to go forth to face the world and to learn more of the meaning of the mysterious word blind. Canon Melville, who knew her in Oxford, writes to one of her sisters as follows:-- THE COLLEGE, WORCESTER, 1885. I have a very clear memory of the person and character of your sister Bessie; it is a pleasure to me to recall them. The natural gifts and graces of her mind and disposition were only heightened by the loss of her eyesight. That wonderful compensating power which often makes amends for loss of faculty in one sense by corresponding intensity in another, her moral and spiritual sensitiveness with that inward joyfulness recording itself in outward expression of a pleased and happy countenance, were remarkably evident. Out of many little traits indicative of this and her quiet intuition of what favourably or otherwise might strike her moral sense, I remember once when the appearance of some one she personally, for some unknown reason, disliked, was being remarked upon, and I had pronounced my admiration of it, she turned quite gravely to me, and with deep earnestness, as if she was then seeing or had recently seen the form and figure of him of whom we were talking, exclaimed, "Oh, Mr. Melville, I cannot agree with you! How can you admire him!" Something that had jarred with her moral perceptions having made her transfer her judgment on the character to the form and features of the person, as though she had seen the analogy she felt there must be between the outward and the inward. Of the history of her self-devotion to the personal and industrial improvement of those under like affliction with herself her whole life was an illustration. Of that many must have much to tell. During the removal from Oxford the Bishop and Mrs. Gilbert were in London with two daughters, of whom Bessie was one; Fanny and the younger ones were left under the charge of the faithful governess, Miss Lander, and in bright and copious epistles they inform Bessie of all that is going on in the old home. They tell how they had heard Adelaide Kemble in Oxford, whom Bessie is shortly to hear at Covent Garden; how they met many friends at the concert; how one gentleman told them that Adelaide Kemble sang better than Catalani; and how three who had not heard Catalani said she was equal to Grisi. How some of the "Fellows" went home to supper with them, and how they all stayed up till twelve o'clock, a great event for the little girls and their governess, who all send "love and duty to papa and mamma." There is another letter to Bessie, still in London, though the parents have returned to Oxford, which gives a happy picture of last days there. Bessie sends as farewell presents some of the little chains which she makes, and the sisters sew them together for her. The father receives a farewell presentation of plate, the elder girls darn rents in the gowns of their friends, the Fellows of Brasenose, and so on it runs:-- MY DEAR BESSIE--I write to you now in a great hurry to tell you to send Mr. Melville's chain to-morrow by Mr. ----, as I expect we shall see him some time to-morrow, and I could sew it for him. I sent the mat on Tuesday, and when he came to tea in the evening he said he must come to thank you for it to-day; but as I told him he would not be able to see Sarah and Henrietta after this week, he seemed to say that he should wait till next week to see you, which I hope you will think quite fair. The plate was presented to papa yesterday. The address was short, but a very nice one, and I suspect chiefly written by Mr. ----. Papa's answer I have not seen, as he had only one copy, which he left with the Vice-Principal. We were none of us there, which I am almost sorry for, although it would very likely have been too much for us. Papa is delighted beyond measure with it.... We went last night to drink tea at aunt's, and then went to sleep at the Barnes's. We are going to dinner there to-night and sleep, for there is not a bed here. The glasses and all the pictures are gone, and that has made the house more deplorable than ever. Miss A. is here now, and seems pretty well. You know that Mary and I have been mending Mr. A.'s gown for him. He came this morning for it and stayed some time. He said he could not have got it done anywhere else so nicely; that is a long darn that Mary did for him. The B.'s have told Mr. W. that they will keep their acquaintance with him for our sakes, so that he will not be quite deserted; are not you glad of it? Will you ask Miss Lander to send word where she left her Punch and Judy? If she doesn't remember, I daresay it will be found; but we have not seen it. There is a chance, I believe, of Mr. A.'s taking Selham, but you must not say anything about it. All send love to everybody.--Believe me to be your affectionate sister, F. H. L. G. Whilst the parents were in London this year, Bessie paid one visit which produced a great and lasting effect upon her. She accompanied her mother to the blind school in the Avenue Road; and this seems to have been the first time that the blind, as a class of the community, apart from the majority, and separated by a great loss and privation, came under her notice. The experience could not fail to be painful. She contrasted the lot of these young people with her own in her happy home, and shrank back in pain from institutions in which the afflicted are herded together, the one common bond that of the fetters of a hopeless fate. The matron of the girls' school, afterwards Mrs. Levy, remembers this visit, and says the impression produced on her by the bishop's daughter was that she was "delightful, beautiful, full of sympathy for the blind." She remembers also that the Bishop preached in Marylebone Church in aid of the blind school, taking as his text words that must often have comforted and strengthened his own heart, "Who hath made the blind and deaf, but I the Lord?" This year, 1842, was altogether a memorable one. Bessie's grandfather, as a young man, had a living or curacy at Acton, where his chief friend, the squire of the parish, was a Mr. Wegg. Another friend of whom he saw much at this time was Mr. Bathurst, afterwards General Sir James Bathurst, aide-de-camp to the Duke of Wellington. A third was Miss Hales, companion and friend of Mrs. Wegg. The Gilberts and the Bathursts were Miss Hales's dearest friends; and she had a god-daughter in each family, they were Catherine, younger daughter of Sir James Bathurst, and Bessie, the blind grand-daughter of Mr. Wintle. Mrs. Gilbert always corresponded with Miss Hales, sent her copies of Bessie's verses, and information as to the health and progress of the child. Miss Hales died in 1842, and by will divided her fortune between her two god-daughters. Bessie was thus placed in a different position from that of any of her sisters; she alone when she attained her majority would have an independent income during her father's lifetime. The Bishop was relieved from anxiety as to the future of his blind daughter, and the necessity of ample provision for her; but he felt strongly, and wished her also to feel, that the possession of money brings with it duties and responsibilities. FOOTNOTE: [4] "Added to this the authorities of the University, the appointed guardians of those who form great part of the attendants on my sermons, have shown a dislike to my preaching. One dissuades men from coming, the late Vice-Chancellor threatens to take his own children away from the church."--_Apologia pro Vita Sua_, p. 133. John Henry Newman, D.D. Longmans, 1879. CHAPTER V THE PALACE GARDEN "Joy and woe are woven fine, A clothing for the soul divine."--BLAKE. By the autumn of 1842 the removal from Oxford to Chichester had been accomplished. The Bishop and his family were installed in the palace, which was to be their home for twenty-eight years. A new life was beginning for Bessie, and one which, when the inevitable pain of parting from old friends was over, she learnt to love very dearly. She had a keen imaginative delight in the beauties of nature. She loved to hear of clouds and sunset; of sunrise and the dawn, of green fields, of hills and valleys. She loved the outer air, flowers, and the song of birds; and she had passed the first sixteen years of her life in a house in the High Street, Oxford. She was very proud of the architectural beauty of Oxford, and always thought it a distinction to belong to Oxford; but her whole heart was soon in the home at Chichester. The Bishop's palace has a beautiful old-fashioned garden, of which the city wall forms the west and part of the southern boundary. A sloping mound leads from the garden to within a few feet of the top of the wall, and there is a green walk around the summit. There are grassy plots, umbrageous trees, flowering shrubs, roses, roses everywhere; and there are birds that sing all the long day in the spring-time. The black-cap was a special favourite of Bessie's and of the Bishop's. A garden door in the palace opens upon a straight gravel walk, with a southern aspect, leading towards the western boundary wall. On the southern side of the walk lies the garden, on the north a bank of lilacs, laburnums, and shrubs. Here Bessie could walk alone; she needed no companion, no guide. It was a new pleasure to her, and one of which she never grew weary. The song of birds, the hum of insects, the rustle of the trees, all made the garden a fairy palace of delight. A sister remembers how one summer morning at three o'clock she found Bessie standing at her bedside begging her to get up and dress, and go with her to the garden "to hear the birds waking up." Her father always gave a shilling to whoever saw the first swallow, and Bessie was delighted when the shilling had been earned. The hall of the palace is a confusing place; there are many doors, passages, rooms opening into and leading from it There was always a moment of hesitation before Bessie opened the garden door or found the turning which she wanted; but she quickly accommodated herself to all other eccentricities in one of the most puzzling of old-fashioned houses. She spent less time in the schoolroom at Chichester than she had done at Oxford; she was indeed soon emancipated from the schoolroom altogether. She was much with her mother in the pleasant morning-room adjoining the bed and dressing rooms used by her parents. A steep spiral staircase, without a rail of any kind, with half a stair cut away at intervals for convenience of access to a cupboard or a small room, led from her father's dressing-room to rooms above. One of these with a western window so darkened by trees that no sunlight and very little daylight entered, was assigned to Bessie and one sister, whilst another sister was close at hand in another small room. The Bishop made a window to the south in Bessie's room, which greatly improved it, admitting light and air and all the sweet garden sounds and scents. The drawing-room is on the first floor near the morning-room. You ascend to it by a few broad stairs. A passage on the same floor leads to the private chapel attached to the palace, where Bessie knelt daily in prayer. The dining-room on the ground floor, the best room in the house, with its oak panels and fine painted ceiling, was a great pleasure to her. Some years later, when her work made it necessary that she should have a private sitting-room, two rooms were assigned to her in the centre of the house, one of which had been the schoolroom. Access to these is gained by a long passage barely high enough to allow a full-grown person to stand erect at the highest part, near the bedroom door; and sloping on the other side to the floor and outer wall of the palace. Windows in the steep roof look north into West Street. Bessie's rooms were close to the angle formed by the centre and west wing of the palace, and had windows facing south. Up and down the narrow steep stairs and along the passages to the drawing-room, the morning-room, the dining-room, the chapel, the fragile form of the blind girl was seen to pass with unerring accuracy. She never stumbled or fell at Chichester any more than she had done at Oxford. Indeed, Oxford was useful throughout life, as no difficulties could be greater than those she had learnt to surmount in her childhood. Scarce a stone's throw from the palace is the cathedral, where the seat of the Bishop's blind daughter is still pointed out. Bessie had a personal pleasure, a pride and delight in the beauty of the cathedral, spoke of it, as she did of any venerated object, with lowered tones; knew its history and form, the plan of the building, the salient architectural features, and all the best points of view. The Rev. Carey H. Borrer, Rector of Hurst Pierpoint, and Treasurer of Chichester Cathedral, writes as follows of the impression produced at this time: My first introduction to Bessie Gilbert was when the Bishop had just taken possession of the palace at Chichester. I had been staying at Lavington with Archdeacon Manning (now the Cardinal), and we went together to sleep at the deanery (Dean Chandler's), and we all went to dine at the palace. Bessie was then very young, very slight and fragile looking, dressed as usual in white muslin, and with her dark spectacles immediately attracted my attention. In the evening she went to the piano, and sang very sweetly and with much pathos several familiar Scotch songs. I asked her if she knew certain others, mostly Jacobite songs, with which I was familiar from hearing my very dear friend William Harris (fellow of All Souls', a devoted lover of Prince Charlie) sing them. She at once warmed up and sang some of them. Others she did not know, and was glad to hear something about them. Under that gentle aspect there came out a heart full of fire and earnestness, which showed itself in her interest for suffering and heroism, and afterwards found field for its energy in her untiring efforts for the blind. Whenever we met there was always a warm shaking of the hand, and a feeling of sympathy of tastes between us. I had not seen much of persons suffering from blindness, and I was struck by her simple way of saying "I have not _seen_ him," or "I should like to _see_ it"--something like Zacharias "_asking_" for a writing-table. No one could be with Bessie Gilbert without feeling chastened by the presence of a true, pure, warm-hearted, earnest Christian girl. I breakfasted at the palace the next morning after service at the private chapel, and I was delighted at the Bishop's calling on one of the younger girls to say grace. Mrs. Gilbert told me they took it in turns. I should like to have heard Bessie's grace to her Heavenly Father. Very soon new friends gathered round the _sisterhood_; but at first the change, so far as society was concerned, was keenly felt by them. There were no Fellows of B.N.C. to come in with torn gowns to be mended, and talk of Catalani and Grisi; no more dinners in the Hall, none of the intellectual activity of university life. They had also far less of the company of a father greatly beloved by all his children. Official business at Chichester was much heavier than it had been at Oxford, and absorbed more of his time. The Archdeacon of Chichester at that time was the Rev. E. H. (now Cardinal) Manning. He was a frequent visitor at the palace, where a room was set apart for him. As years passed on, the anxiety of his friends with regard to his views increased. At last there came a day in 1851 when he and Bishop Gilbert had a long talk with Bishop Wilberforce at Lavington, and Archdeacon Manning returned to pay his last visit to the palace. He wrote a day or two later to announce his decision to join the Church of Rome. As he stood in the hall on this last visit he saw Bessie enter from her favourite garden walk. She was as usual puzzled by the doors, and hesitated a moment before coming to a decision. The archdeacon saw this, and stepping forward took her by the hand: "I believe you cannot find the way," he said. In speaking of this she would add, in that gentle, solemn manner she had when she was deeply moved, "I only said 'thank you,' but I thought is it I that cannot find my way?" In 1844 an event of great interest to girls in and out of the schoolroom took place. A German governess, Fraülein D., replaced the English lady who had for so long been a member of the household. German became at once the most fascinating of all subjects of study for young and old; and the Fraülein, with her open mind and, from the point of view of those days, her advanced views, speedily acquired great influence over Bessie. Fraülein D. describes the charm of the family circle at the palace, in which the two prominent figures were the Bishop and his blind daughter. Bessie had at this time a very tenacious memory. No matter how long the reading of a book had been suspended, she could always repeat every word of the last sentence. She was easily affected by any sad events that were narrated, and would weep over them. Her parents, sisters, and brothers had taken such pains to include her in all that was going forward, and to make her and keep her one of themselves, that she would say, "Oh yes, I see," and "How beautiful," when you talked to her. She was very particular about her dress, quite as much so as any of her sisters, and specially scrupulous in the matter of gloves. Her hands were small, white, delicately beautiful, and very feeble. She liked to have such accurately fitting gloves that the time she took to put them on was a joke in the family. Three of the sisters were at Culham when the Fraülein arrived, and many bright letters passed between Bessie at Chichester and her own "special" sister Mary at Culham. Bessie tells Mary how her brother Robert had returned from the Continent, having learnt "a great many German words and some French;" how he had grown fonder of music, and could allow "that it is an art capable of giving a great deal of pleasure." She gives all the little gossip of home, describes the new German governess "a pretty figure, black hair, rather a large mouth, an animated countenance, very lady-like and lively.... They (the younger ones) like Miss D. very much, and so we do, all of us, I think." Bessie has read _Don Carlos_, the _Bride of Messina_, and a play by Halm. Her reading time is from four to five; but there are reading and needlework from three to four, which all the elders try to join, and from which, we may be sure, Bessie would not be absent. Then there is a dinner party at the Palace: "She (the Fraülein) dined, and so did I." "As to the dinner part I managed very well. I had it all by heart. What I was to have was all settled in the morning, so that I had very little else to do but to talk, and that I did so much that I was really almost ashamed. Mr. ---- took me down, and pleased mamma uncommonly by praising me to her in the evening. I cannot think why." A little later Bessie is at Culham, and writes to Mary at Chichester. Now don't make any more excuses about not writing. For my part I have forgiven you, at least since this delicious weather, for we have been out almost all day lately. Yesterday we walked to Abingdon, did some shopping, and came back before breakfast. [Inquiries about friends follow, and then:] Question upon question; but no matter, answer another, who sent me the violets? though I think my guess is right. If it was Mr. Ashworth it was very kind, for I think they were the first he had found this spring. Take care what you put in your letters to grandpapa. The last but one was pronounced by a judge whose opinion I am sure you will agree with, because you will think it right, to be very dignified and a perfect specimen of epistolography. There were cries of "It won't do" all through the letter. Do you think you shall come here soon? I begin to want to see some of you. Bessie, as usual, had charge of one of the little girls. She writes: "I think Katie is improved since we have been here, but I cannot get her to get up; so please ask mamma to say what time she is to get up, for now it is not much before eight and often some time after." Now to an elder sister who wants to do her shopping at Abingdon before breakfast, Miss Katie must have been a trial. But Bessie herself was by no means perfect in this respect. Some years later she and a sister about her own age paid a visit to an old lady, cousin of their father's, in Yorkshire. This cousin rose early, was very punctual, and expected her guests to be the same; but, "Say what I would," writes her sister, "I could not get Bessie up in the morning, not even though I represented that it made me appear to disregard Miss Dawson's wishes as well as herself, and was not fair. The only answer I could get was, 'I say nothing;' and the next morning she was as late as ever." Whether Mrs. Gilbert was in this case also appealed to "to fix the hour" we are not told. In the autumn Bessie is at home again, and, writing to her faithful Mary, she says: "The week after next our house must stretch a slight degree. There will be the Halls, the Churtons, the Woods from Broadwater (it was Mrs. Wood who fought for the teaching of reading in St. George's Schools thirteen years previously), the two Archdeacons, Mr. Garbett, Mr. Simpson, and another gentleman, all in the house; and Mr. Wagner, if he comes, will have a room at the inn. This will be something like--won't it? I think mamma liked her visit to----." The Bishop, his wife, and one daughter, had been paying short visits to influential people in the county. The young lady sends home letters which show close and minute powers of observation and no small insight into character. The rooms, the pictures, the plate and china, all are described, and she ends by saying: I suppose you will expect a comparison of the two families. The gentlemen are far superior at A----; and though B---- is more fascinating, and makes one feel for her as if one could do anything, yet A---- seems to me to be superior to her in strength of mind and also in acquirements. Lady C. is much younger than Lady D., much more in awe of her mother, and being plain, has not the appearance of being used to the homage of all around her like Lady D. So ends my long story of a short but pleasant time, and if it has tired your patience, at least you cannot complain of my not having given you a full account. Looking over these letters, taken back into the past by the yellow paper, the faded ink, the old-fashioned writing, all angular and sloping, letters fresh and vivid with youth, intelligence, and goodness, one cannot but wonder if those written by a girl of seventeen, in these days of high pressure, will be such pleasant reading forty years hence. Bessie was greatly interested in these visits, and she writes to Mary at Culham: "Mamma saw some beautiful miniatures of the Pretender, the Cardinal York and their sister the Princess Louisa. They were very small, and set in turquoises and diamonds. I believe that princess married the King of Sardinia." The Rev. T. Lowe, Vicar of Willingdon, who left Chichester thirty-five years ago, says that he often met Bessie at the palace and in general society at Chichester; that he made use of every opportunity he had to cultivate her acquaintance. She liked to talk of music, and he "remembers well the sweet expression of her mobile features, declaring the peace and resignation that dwelt within. These, no doubt, made her so alive to all pleasures within her reach. It was a touching sight to see her joining, with evident enjoyment, in a quadrille at an evening party at home or elsewhere." Mr. Lowe saw her occasionally after he left Chichester. She was interested in some blind persons in his parish. One she rescued from "the uncongenial life of the workhouse;" another acted as an agent for her society; and she was specially interested in a third, both blind and deaf, now dead. "Her sympathy with these sufferers was full of comfort to them; and as to them, so to all to whom it is known, the history of her long, patient suffering; of her submission to the heavy trial laid upon her; of her thankful enjoyment of the blessings granted her; of her loving endeavours to alleviate like suffering in others--will, I doubt not, bring forth good fruit in other hearts and other lives." Mr. Wintle at Culham was now an aged man, and his infirm health gave much anxiety to Mrs. Gilbert. After she had left Oxford one or two of her daughters were nearly always with their grandfather. One of his latest letters, written from his Oxford lodgings, was to his favourite Blossom. _27th November 1845._ MY DEAR BLOSSOM--As I have gained the reputation of not caring for what I do or say, why may I not scribble a scrawl to you containing what is found uppermost in my memorandum box? Not having been admitted a member of the Abingdon Literary and Scientific Society, you must look rather for trifles from a bagatelle warehouse than for graver subjects culled from the repository of useful and entertaining knowledge. But previous to opening my budget let me express a wish that I may soon hear from one of the numerous palace scribes of your mother's faceache having left her, and that you are all as well as the damps of November will permit of your being. As you probably knew nothing of my opposite neighbour Chaundy, hair-dresser and perfumer, perhaps you will nothing grieve at hearing that he is moving from the Corn Market to the High Street, nor will you be much interested in hearing that Mr. ---- tells his Oxford tradesmen that as he deals with them, he expects they will come to his shop and buy a pig of him. Possibly you may be amused by hearing that Mr. A. and Dr. B. have nominated five select preachers, all ultra low church, of whom Mr. C. is one, who takes an annuity of £500 from his parishioners in Holy Well, in preference to a living from his college. So would not I. [And so on through three pages of gossip ending:] And now with love to you all, affectionately am I yours, R. W. In the spring of 1846 the Bishop and Mrs. Gilbert, with many but not all the daughters, were in the Isle of Wight. Mary was again at Culham with her grandfather, who was recovering from a serious illness, and had been out "in a sedan chair." Bessie writes full accounts: "You should have heard Nora begging to go. She has gained her point, you see;" and then follows a description of the little house at Ryde, of their visitors and friends, the books they were to read, etc. During this visit Bessie once walked from Ryde to Shanklin, and was proud of the achievement. The Bishop's house in London at this time was in Green Street, Grosvenor Square. He and Mrs. Gilbert with some daughters were there in the early part of the year 1846, and Bessie was left in the post of honour, at home. The father writes to her without making any allowance for blindness. She is to give orders and arrange for their return just as Mary would have done. MY DEAR BESSIE--I write to you as Mrs. House, Mrs. Pomona, Mrs. Flora, _i.e._ as having, under your aunt and Miss Deiss, sovereign rule in the domestic, horticultural, and floral departments at Chichester, but not as Mrs. Ceres, as with respect to the farm I reserve the rule therein to John and Symonds, and Smoker and myself, which may account for the bad condition things in that department are in.... Now, in your domestic department let me suggest to you to order preparations for the return of the veritable heads of the family, possibly on Friday next, to dinner, but you may expect to hear again. Then, in the horticultural, know that a tub of regent potatoes, and eke a tub of blues, containing each about a sack, may daily be expected. They are to be used as seed at your and Holmes's discretion. Those which are not so used you may direct to be put from time to time into a pot and saved for dinner. In your floral department I do not presume to give any hint; the greater will be your responsibility if either violets are drooping or snowdrops and crocuses not in sufficient abundance. Poor me! I am afraid they are all over, blossomed and gone while I have been smoke-dried here. But mind you show me something when I come, or I may prove a rat without a tail. Pray, why do none of you little pusses write to me? I desire I may have an olla podrida, a bit of something from every one, without delay. How do you think I am to get on here all by myself? Yes, indeed! Pray, look to it, Mrs. House, and mind your P's and Q's, and do not laugh, but let me have my letter from all in a cluster, and I daresay in a clatter too forthwith. So no more at present from your and their fond parent and most loving father, A. T. CHICHESTER. I suppose you know poor aunt E. M. has left you her piano. If your grandpapa does not think it too large and would let it go to Culham, should you object? In August 1846 Bessie completed a long poem founded on a belief "which prevails in parts of Burgundy, that the first flower which blossoms on the grave of a departed friend links the soul of the departed in eternal love to that of the person who gathers it." The verses are moderately smooth and pretty, but give no great promise of excellence in that department. It is, however, characteristic of the writer that she represents the "departed friend" not as a lover, but as the father of the girl who has gathered the first blossom, and that she concludes: And strength was given to her through prayer In patience all her woe to bear, Clearly her duty to discern, And never more her life to spurn. She lived, not wrapt in selfish grief; Wherever she could give relief-- In poverty, sickness, or despair, A spirit of comfort, she was there; One of that heavenly sisterhood Who only live for others' good. Such words are like a feather thrown up in the air, they show the direction of the prevailing current. For two years longer the visits to Culham and Oxford recur at frequent intervals, and there is repeated mention of the names of old friends. Every event of interest that affects them--births, deaths, marriages, arrivals, departures, promotions, bridesmaids' dresses--all are duly chronicled. Once we are told of two merry girls shut up with some of his pet MSS. by Mr. Coxe, the librarian of the Bodleian, who was too busy to join them. They emerged from his den in a state of enthusiasm which satisfied even his requirements; but they had to undergo a severe brushing from "his own clothes-brush and at his own hands," for, "learned dust as it was, we could not carry it through Oxford." In 1847 the youngest brother, Tom, met with an alarming accident at Westminster School. By some means when preparing to act in a play his cloak caught fire, and he was almost burnt to death. Bessie used to tell how the little fellow was found kneeling with raised hands, and praying aloud, in the midst of a crowd of terrified boys, whilst the flames leapt up above his head. He was so much injured that it was more than a year before he recovered. His first letter, written with the left hand and the greater part of it unintelligible, is to Bessie. He is the little boy who was pulling daisies for her in Magdalen Gardens, and telling of their golden centres. In 1848 Mr. Wintle died at Culham. Mrs. Gilbert was staying with him, and the Bishop with some of his daughters started at once for Oxford when he heard how serious the case had become. Mr. Wintle had expressed a special desire to see Bessie, but he was almost unconscious when she arrived. He was told that "Little Blossom" had come. "Where is she?" he asked, and with a last effort stretched out his hand towards her. The pleasant home was henceforth closed to them, all silent and empty. The great-uncle also passed away in 1855, and though many friends remained, yet from this time Oxford recedes, and is no longer a second home. At this period Martin Tupper resided at Brighton; and Bessie, who seems to have sent him a copy of "The Sea Gull," received from him a letter which she valued, and a copy of "A Hymn and a Chant for the Harvest Home of 1847, by the author of _Proverbial Philosophy_." He wrote as follows: FURZE HILL, BRIGHTON, _23d August 1848_. MY DEAR MISS BESSIE--An autograph of such affecting interest as that with which you have this morning so kindly favoured me, gives me the privilege of a letter of thanks in reply. And thank you I do very cordially; especially for having so soon and so amiably fulfilled your intention of honouring my verses with your melodious tones. When they are quite ready, I shall look forward with much interest to a manuscript copy; and I am not sure but that, some day or other, I shall run over and pay my respects at the palace, very much with the self-interested object of hearing you do justice to your own music. I am sure you will not refuse me this, especially as here we have no piano; not but that I will go _toute suite_ to ask Miss Wagner or the Fraülein to give me an idea of your "Sea Gull," so as not to be altogether ignorant of the "sweet sounds" which you have married to Mary Howitt's "immortal verse." I have nothing here to offer you in return for your musical authorship, unless you might be pleased to accept "from the author" the enclosed. Pray make my best respects acceptable to your father and mother and sisters, and believe me, my dear Miss Bessie, your obliged and faithful friend, MARTIN J. TUPPER. Miss Bessie Gilbert. In 1849 Bessie, with two sisters and a brother, paid visits in Ireland. One of her chief pleasures was in listening to the echoes at Killarney. Wherever she went the young blind lady called out warm sympathy. On the way from Glengariffe to Cork they stopped at Gougon Barra to see the famous "Healing Well." The guide besought Bessie in the most earnest and pathetic manner to try the water, saying that he was sure it would restore her sight, and entreating her brother and sisters to urge her to make use of it. This was the first time, since the visit to Liverpool, that she had been far from home, and she enjoyed her journey. She liked staying at hotels; the novelty was refreshing, and she liked the feeling that she also could travel and "see" the world. The Bishop writes to Bessie on the 11th September 1849 from the "Old Ship private house," Brighton, as follows:-- Now I doubt not that you enjoyed the mountain scheme as well as any of them, and, with the aid of the mountain air, the potatoes too and milk of the cottagers, not omitting, however, I daresay, the more substantial viands which accompanied you from the Hospitable Hall. As for the wetting and all that, of course you treat that as heroines are bound to do--that is as trifles, where it is not convenient to exalt them above their true character. The "Hospitable Hall" is that of Lismore, Archdeacon Cotton's house, where the travellers stayed for some time. Bessie's eldest brother married Archdeacon Cotton's daughter the following year, so that the visit was one of special interest. The Bishop had now a house in London, 31 Queen Anne Street, and the family life was divided between London and Chichester. When she was twenty-one Bessie had the command of her own income. One of her first acts was to subscribe to the Philharmonic concerts. The daughter of an old friend of her parents, Mrs. Denison (now Lady Grimthorpe), lived in the same street, and also subscribed; she used to call for and take Bessie with her. The impression which Lady Grimthorpe received at that time was, first of all, "How merry she is:" and next, what an intense appreciation she had of beautiful music, and what a happy, trustful confidence in those about her. One night at the concert the gas suddenly went out, fears of an explosion were whispered about, and many persons left the room. Bessie put her hand in Lady Grimthorpe's and said: "I have no fear whatever, with you. Go or stay as you think best;" and they stayed. She would return from these concerts so bright and beaming, and give such pleasure to her father by her animated accounts of them, that he learnt to associate her enjoyment with a scarlet cloak she then wore. He said he would have her portrait taken, and in that cloak, for she never looked so well in anything else. Some time later this was done by Sir W. Boxall, and the frontispiece to this volume represents a picture which gives as much of the spiritual beauty and delicacy of Bessie's youthful face as the painter's art can render. CHAPTER VI A SENSE OF LOSS "When the fire is strong, it soon appropriates to itself the matter which is heaped on it, and consumes it, and rises higher by means of this very material."--MARCUS AURELIUS. Bessie Gilbert, when she was about twenty, differed but little from the sisters around her. She could read Italian, French, and German, and her mental culture had been an education of the true and best kind. She had an open mind, an ardent desire for knowledge, and a warm interest in all the ways and works of humanity. The one accomplishment possible to her was music, and from her childhood her singing and playing had given pleasure to herself and others. "She never could sing out of tune:" says a musical friend. She readily gained friends, for she was sympathetic and kind, and inspired others with confidence. A lady, very young and shy at that time, remembers calling in Queen Anne Street, and feeling alarmed at every one except Bessie. Sitting by her side, and talking to her, the shyest were at their ease. No hardships in her lot had up to this time come home to her. Indeed, it is very doubtful if the want of sight to those born blind or those who have lost the memory of sight, is in youth a greater conscious privation than the want of wings. By degrees a different condition is conceivable, because it is known in a certain way from description; but as no person born blind can exactly realise what sight is, or what it does, there is no conscious sense of loss. No person born blind can comprehend the nature of the impression that sight conveys. Red may be as "the sound of a trumpet," blue as the outer air, and green a something connected with the meadows and the delight of flowers and shade; but except to those who remember, the sense of sight is only a name for the incomprehensible. Bessie did not remember, and therefore she did not know the special hardship of blindness and that sense of irreparable loss, of "wisdom at one entrance quite shut out," which is so heavy an affliction. As the years wore on she was, however, to learn the privations that resulted from her loss of sight, although the loss itself was not, and could not be, intelligible to her. Some day a gifted creature may tell us of the possession of an organ and a sense revealing a dimension absolutely incomprehensible. We may come to bewail our lower condition; but how without the organ or the sense will it be possible to realise the nature of the loss or the advantage of possession? Bessie by means of fingers or ears could get at the meaning of a book. There is a third and quicker way, she is told, but how except through fingers and ears can she realise it? Up to a certain point she has gone hand in hand with sisters and brothers; if not indeed in advance of them. She reaches that point full of ardour and enthusiasm, eager to learn, to live, to work, and suddenly the way is barred. Blindness stands there as with a drawn sword, and she can go no farther. The limitations of her condition touched her first on the side of pleasure. She could join in a quadrille at Chichester, could dine at the palace when there was a party, and "what she was to take" had been arranged in the morning. But in London there were no balls for her, no dining out except with a few very old friends, no possibility of including her in the rapid whirl of London life. She had many disappointments, and tried hard to conceal them. Only once, says a sister, did she see a swift look of passing pain, when telling Bessie about a ball from which in the early morning she had returned. It was there for an instant, recognised by the loving and beloved sister, but at once thrust away, and Bessie threw herself with more than ordinary interest into the account of the pleasures of the evening. Another sister tells how about this time Bessie began "to want to do impossible things," to go out alone in London, to go alone in a cab, and if she might not go alone, she wished to give her own orders to the cabman. Reading and writing depended largely on the time that others could give her. Writing was a slow and laborious process. She could write in the ordinary way, but to do so she had to remember not the form of a letter but the movements of her own hand. Such writing had to be looked over in case a word should be unintelligible, and she could therefore have no private correspondents. Girls in Oxford and at Chichester had plenty of spare time, but when the family was divided, and those in London or at Chichester had the duties of their position as well as its pleasures to attend to, there grew up almost insensibly a different order of things. In childhood and youth the blind daughter was the centre of all activity and pleasure; but the blind woman inevitably recedes more and more. She no longer leads; she can with difficulty follow; and at a distance which increases as the years go on. The five or ten years that elapse after she is twenty, form the turning point in the life of a woman, whether married or unmarried. During that period, when she begins to tire of mere pleasure, there will come either the earnest and serious view of life which shows it all golden with promise, as a gift to be used on behalf of others; or a settled drift towards the current of levity, frivolity, and self-seeking, which may carry her down to age, dishonoured and unloved. That which caused Bessie the keenest grief at this time was the impossibility of achieving what she wished to make her life, and not the loss of its pleasures. But it was the loss of pleasure which preceded all other privations. Her tendency was, as it always had been, towards things that were noble, and high, and good. Without any fault of her own, without any change in her own condition, she discovered that blindness would be a permanent bar to activity. Sisters began to marry and be sought in marriage. A home of her very own, a beautiful life, independent of the family life, and yet united to it; fresh interests and added joy to all; the hope of this, which was her ideal of marriage, she had to renounce. Work in the world, even a place in the world, there seemed to be none for her. Blindness, which had been a name, was becoming a stern reality. She asked about the blind around her, those who had to earn their bread; and the same answer came from all. She saw them led up to the verge of manhood and womanhood, and then, as it were, abandoned. They were set apart by their calamity, even as she was. Their sufferings were not less, but greater than her own. Poverty was added to them, and the enforced indignity of a beggar's life. She bore her grief alone. She could not speak of it even to those she loved most dearly, and entirely trusted. She could not consciously add to the pain she knew they felt for her. But in those early years she would often sit silent and apart in the drawing-room at Queen Anne Street, tears streaming from her eyes. Sometimes she would spend hours together upon her knees, always silent; but the flowing tears spoke for her, and with an eloquence which she little realised. The sense of want and suffering was to be for her as it is for many, the great instrument of education. Whilst so many around her were craving for something to set them above their neighbours, some gift of fortune, some distinction, she was learning the need of that which should place the poor blind on the same level as others, learning to renounce for herself and for them any higher ambition than that of being like the rest of mankind. The distress of her parents, who could only stand apart, watch and pray for her, was very great. They did not see how help was to come, but they continued in the old course. There was no aid for the blind, no invention which they did not eagerly inquire into, since it might be the appointed means of deliverance. Their sympathy was doubtless a great comfort to Bessie in this time of trial. They may not have been able to meet her in words, but she knew their hearts, knew that they never despaired; that their past, present, and future, were alike irradiated by hope for her, and, if for her, then for all those under like affliction. There were many, doubtless, who at this time would have justified the assertion of Mr. Maurice:[5] "The first impulse of most is to say, in such circumstances, 'Hold your peace. We are very sorry for you; but in the press and bustle of the world we have really not time to think about you. We are very fortunate in possessing our senses; we must use them. To be without them is no doubt a great calamity, but it has been appointed for you; you must make the best of it.' That appears to be a very natural and reasonable way of settling the question. If the votes of the majorities ruled the world, that would be the only way." Bessie cannot have failed to meet and speak with many of the "majority," whose quiet acquiescence in a misfortune that did not come near them, would often "give her pause." Social questions also attracted her attention at this time. A sister remembers reading Lord Ingestre's _Meliora_ to her, and the intense interest she took in the question of bridging over the chasm between the rich and the poor. It was not a new question to her, this bridging over a chasm. It was that which, under another aspect, was engrossing so much of her attention. The discovery of a method, or even the suggestion of the possibility of such a discovery, would be a sign of hope. The first ray of light, however, came through a very small chink, and not at all in heroic form. During the Great Exhibition of 1851 her parents learnt that a Frenchman was showing a writing frame of his invention, and that by means of it the blind could write unaided. The inventor, M. Foucault, was invited to Queen Anne Street. Bessie learnt to use the frame, and soon found that it made her independent of supervision and assistance. She could write and address a letter herself; and here at last she stood in one respect on an equal footing with those around her. She used in later years to date from the time she had the Foucault frame. A medal was awarded to the inventor, but owing to some mistake it was not sent to him. Bessie was instrumental in procuring and having it forwarded to a man whom she looked upon as her benefactor. Her friendship with Miss Isabella Law, which lasted throughout her life, was inaugurated over the Foucault frame. A correspondence was carried on between them with regard to it, and Miss Law, blind daughter of the Vicar of Northrepps, who was preparing a volume of poetry for the press, found it very helpful, and at the same time found a dear and valued friend. Another use which Bessie made of the frame was to write, in 1851, to a young blind man named William Hanks Levy, of whom she had heard at the St. John's Wood School for the Blind. He was an assistant teacher there, and in 1852 married the matron of the girls' school, with whom Mrs. Gilbert had corresponded in Bessie's childhood, and who had sent embossed books to Oxford. Levy did all the printing for the St. John's Wood School, and Bessie wanted an explanation of the Lucas system in use there. She could read every kind of embossed printing, and when she heard of any new system, always inquired into it. She knew at this time the triangular Edinburgh in which the first books she possessed were printed, Moon, Braille, the American, and several shorthand types. She could read Roman capitals and the mixed large and small hands. She always considered the Edinburgh type the simplest; but when she found how many adults lose their sight, and how slowly their sense of touch is developed, whilst in some it is not developed at all, she thought that, on the whole, it might be best to use Roman capitals for the blind, that this would offer greater facility than any other system for those who had previously learnt to read, and would present no greater difficulty to those born blind. She made no effort for the advancement of her view on this subject, and in later years always advocated the use of Moon's type for those who lose sight as adults. Her own keenness of touch was marvellous, but then it had been carefully trained from the time that the little child sat beside her father at dessert, and poured out his glass of wine. She always knew the hands of her sisters, could tell them apart by touch, and though they would sometimes try, they were never able to deceive her. She also remembered by touch people whom she had not met for years. But she recognised that her power and that of some of the born blind was exceptional, and the development of it due to careful training. And so her letter written to inquire into a system which she did not understand, turned her thought for a time to a question which always interested, though it never engrossed her, that of deciding upon a uniform type for embossed printing. All paths are right that lead to the mountain top, provided we remember that we are going up the hill and keep ascending. Bessie had taken this very humble path of typewriting, and it led her upwards and onwards, showing her the possibility of giving aid to others through experiments and trials of her own. It has already been mentioned that General Sir James Bathurst was an old friend of the family; and in London his children and the Gilberts saw much of each other. Sir James's eldest daughter, Caroline Bathurst, was one of the little band of so-called "advanced" women who, about this time, 1850, were interested in every movement having for its object the development and intellectual culture of women, and the throwing open to them of some career other than that of matrimony; since matrimony was seen to be not possible or even desirable for some women, such, for example, as Bessie Gilbert. Miss Bathurst had taken part in the opening in 1848 of Queen's College for Women, Harley Street, by the Rev. F. D. Maurice and the Professors of King's College, London. She also gave hearty assistance and furtherance to the opening of a similar institution in Bedford Square by the Professors of the University College, Gower Street. She was one of those who gave earnest and deep thought to the difficult problems of life, who was willing to work to the uttermost of her power, to give all that she had,--time, money, health, even life itself, if only she might aid in raising the condition of women and establishing them as "joint heirs of the grace of life." No one has ever worked more ardently, more enthusiastically than she did. Over women younger than herself she exercised an irresistible fascination. Her courage, her hopefulness, her high and lofty aims, carried others as by a mighty wave over obstacles that had seemed insurmountable. She was a few years older than Bessie, had full experience of all the best that life can give, and also of the deepest sorrows. Those who have seen her will recall the slight graceful figure, broad low brow, and eyes youthful and beautiful like a child's; eyes, with love and trust and happiness looking out from them. And at this very time she was suffering from an incurable malady, and enduring martyrdom with heroic fortitude and without one murmur. Such a friend for Bessie and at such a time marks an epoch in her life. The dear sister Mary was now married, and Mary had also seen with heart-felt sorrow that the condition of her blind sister was inevitably and painfully changed. On a subsequent visit to her old home it was she who first suggested that Bessie should give her time and money for the benefit of the blind. She urged that instead of being laid aside as useless it might be that God was preparing her for a great work on behalf of others. Miss Bathurst was at the same time laying before Bessie the duty and the privilege of a career of some kind, telling of her own labours amongst the poor, and doing all that was possible to loving sympathy in order to stimulate and encourage her. By degrees the dark cloud of depression passed away. It was to gather again and again during the course of her life, to blot out sun and sky and present happiness, but never to settle down into despairing incurable gloom. Bessie heard from Miss Bathurst much of the poor in London, of their troubles, and of their poverty. Her own sympathies naturally led her to consider the condition of the blind poor. She began to make inquiry as to their number, the places they lived in, the work they did, their homes and social condition. Note-books full of facts and dates and numbers testify to the activity of this time. And then once again her attention was directed to the blind teacher in the Avenue Road School. In the autumn of 1853, she was then twenty-seven years old, she wrote to ask Mr. W. Hanks Levy to call upon her in Queen Anne Street. She said she had been told that he could give her the information she wanted as to the condition and requirements of the blind. FOOTNOTE: [5] MS. Sermon on the Blind, Rev. F. D. Maurice. CHAPTER VII THE BLIND MANAGER "While thou livest, while it is in thy power, be good." MARCUS AURELIUS. The interview in Queen Anne Street was one of the most important events in Bessie's life. Her feeble health, her limited opportunities of ascertaining the condition of the poor, her imperfect knowledge of their requirements and their powers, made it imperative that she should find an ally with health and energy, with experience that might supplement her own, and with equal devotion to the cause she had at heart. W. Hanks Levy, who called at her request to tell her about the blind poor, was one of whom she had often heard, and with whom she had already corresponded. He was an assistant teacher at the school in Avenue Road, married to the matron of the girls' department. Levy was of humble origin and blind from early youth. His education, such as it was, had been received at the Avenue Road School, but he was essentially self-taught. Outside of the narrow routine of the school he had worked and striven to obtain knowledge, to find help for himself and others. He was a man of small stature and of slender build, with plentiful dark hair on head and face. He wore darkened spectacles, which covered the sightless eyes. His nose was large and well formed, and the mouth fairly good. All the features were marked by extreme mobility, a sensitive tremulousness often seen in the blind. It is as if they did their thinking outside. Bessie had this same tremulous mobility of feature; her soul fluttered as it were about a thought, and you saw hope, apprehension, joy, fear, or dismay when it was first presented to her. Levy was a man of eager intelligence and generous heart. He earnestly desired the amelioration of the condition of the blind. Their disabilities had pressed upon him from his youth upwards, and upon all around him. Living in an institution, and able to measure himself by no higher standard than that which it offered, he had not, however, realised the actual limitations of blindness. It is doubtful whether he ever did realise them. He would, therefore, have been an unsafe guide, but he was an excellent follower. He would have resented interference from those whom he called "the sighted," but he submitted to the blind lady; her nurture, training, and delicate sense of the fitness of things gave her a strong hold over him. He accepted her judgment when it was opposed to his own will, and faithfully carried out her views and wishes. During this first interview in Queen Anne Street he told her of the various institutions in Great Britain and their work, and especially of the work done in London. At her request he investigated carefully, and obtained dates, facts, and figures that were reliable. Bessie found that the institutions for the blind provided instruction for the young, and for them only. Statistics showed, however, that by far the greater number of blind persons lose their sight as adults, from such causes as fever, smallpox, and accidental injury. They lose sight when others are dependent upon them, and when blindness means either the life of a beggar or life in the workhouse. And again she learnt that the existing institutions dismiss young men and women who have been fairly educated and taught a trade, on the assumption that, as adults, they can practise their trade and earn a living. This conjecture tells cruelly upon the blind. They leave many of the institutions with an adequate stock of clothes, and either with tools or with money to purchase tools; and then begins a hopeless struggle. Private friends diminish in numbers, and are gradually lost. The blind men and women cannot go about from place to place in search of work, cannot work without special contrivances, which are not to be found in ordinary workshops, and have no market for their goods if they work at home. But do blind people wish to work, or would they not rather beg? asked many to whom Bessie spoke on this subject. To this she replied that she did not know; must try to find this out. For some months, at her request, Levy went into the streets and accosted every blind beggar whom he met, asking him or her to tell the story of life to a blind man. "Which would you rather do, work or beg?" he would ask when the speaker had finished. And in almost every case the answer was "Work." "Why, I'd rather work, but how can I get work; or, if I get it, how can I do it? And where can I sell it, if I work at home without orders?" These were the difficulties that experience brought to light, and after many months of close and patient investigation, Bessie at length saw a way open before her. "Don't work yourself to death," a friend said to her at this time. "Work to death," she said, with a happy laugh; "I am working to life." She saw that some one must come forward to befriend the blind poor, some one who could supply material, give employment, or dispose of the articles manufactured. Why should she not do this? Her parents warmly approved of the course she proposed to take, and brothers, sisters, friends encouraged her. They saw that it would bring occupation and interest, which she sorely needed. They could not foresee how the little rill was to widen into a broad stream, and what far-reaching results it would have. In May 1854 "Bessie's scheme" was started. Seven blind men were employed at their own homes, material was purchased for and supplied to them at cost price; the articles manufactured were to be disposed of on their account, and they were to receive the full selling price, minus the cost of material. A cellar was rented in New Turnstile, Holborn, at the cost of eighteen pence a week, and Levy was engaged as manager, with a salary of half a crown a week, and a percentage upon the sales. The cellar was to be a store-room for materials and goods, and as the basket-makers could not bleach their baskets at home, a binn was fixed so that this part of the work could be done in the cellar. Levy recommended a young man named Farrow to put up the bleaching binn. Farrow had lost his sight at eleven years old in consequence of a gun accident. He had been educated in the St. John's Wood School, was a very good carpenter and cabinetmaker, and a man who could readily turn his hand to anything. But like many others who had left the school, he was without work or prospect of work. He fixed the bleaching binn and arranged the cellar as a store-room without any assistance, and from 1854 to the present time he has been employed by the institution which sprang from that small dark cellar in Holborn. Levy's theory was that no man with sight should interfere with the blind; that an opportunity ought to be afforded them of showing that their work is thorough and complete, and that they can stand alone. It may, at that time, have been necessary to take such a step in order to convince the general public that blind men and women could do anything at all, but the theory involves a limitation which is to be regretted. Bessie's education, experience, and sympathy would naturally lead her to try to restore the blind to their place and their work in the world, to ameliorate their condition but not to alienate them, not to separate them from home and companions. Her own happy youth, her work in the schoolroom at Oxford, her enjoyment of the home at Chichester, all tended to prevent her from being drawn into the current with enthusiasts who looked upon the blind, less as afflicted, than as persecuted and oppressed. She had gradually learnt that blindness is a limitation which the most loving and tender care cannot entirely remove. To be blind, to be a woman, both imply considerable restrictions: but Bessie was not predisposed to consider one state any more the fault of society than the other. She would labour to remove the disabilities of either condition, but she always recognised that they were inherent, and did not arise from persecution or ill-will. It is necessary to say so much at this time, because we shall see that in many points Bessie did yield to the judgment of one who took an extreme view; who, himself educated in an institution, surrounded only by blind people, often of a very feeble capacity, had learned to look upon himself more as a member of an oppressed and persecuted race than as an afflicted man. Levy wished to show that the blind could do their work and manage their affairs in their own way, and that it was as good a way as any other. No "sighted" man was to interfere in the workshop. He invented a system of embossed writing, and he used to send to Chichester weekly accounts of the money paid for basket and brush material, and in wages. This money was remitted by Bessie, and when brushes and baskets were sold she was to receive the price paid for them. The liabilities that she undertook were rent, manager's salary, percentages on sale, incidental expenses, and losses. These, with only the cellar and seven blind men at work, would not be more than she could afford, and with the approval of her family she set to work bravely to sell her brushes. The only point on which the Bishop gave advice was, that difference of creed should not be taken into consideration in selecting the workmen to be employed. He urged this very strongly, and Bessie carried out his wishes. Levy's bills, in embossed writing, were copied by Bessie's mother and her sisters; the weekly accounts were kept by these ladies from May 1854, when the cellar was taken, until the end of the year. In the earliest records comes the pathetic entry: "Man to see colour." This man, in spite of Levy's resolve to employ none except the blind, reappears pretty often as the "Viewer." He used to "view" the baskets and their colour. On the 16th of August 1854 Levy's wages were raised to 10s. per week, and at that time the cost of rent, postage, and porter for one week amounted to no more than two shillings and two pence. The cellar was, however, found to be inadequate to the requirements of the undertaking, and it was decided that Levy should take a small house, No. 83 Cromer Street, Brunswick Square. Bessie rented one room from him at half a crown a week. It was to be used as a shop, and was known as the Repository. The cellar in Holborn was given up. As the work of the seven blind men depended mainly upon orders, there was no great accumulation of stock, but some few specimens were on hand. During the year 1854 Levy's accounts were copied sometimes by Mrs. Gilbert, sometimes by Bessie's sisters or her sister-in-law. They were quite clear to the two principals, but outsiders found them confused and confusing. Bessie's younger brother took them in hand and tried to reduce them to order, but the task was a hopeless one. Some bills were entered more than once, whilst others were not entered at all. To Bessie, who kept these accounts with unfailing accuracy in her head, the difficulties with regard to entries must have seemed one of the disabilities of sight. We learn some particulars as to the original plan from a statement by Mrs. Gilbert; for each amanuensis kept her own special copy of accounts. "As much is to come back from the men for material as has been originally expended by Bessie for material. "The men take material weighed out by Mr. Levy one week and pay for it the next week. "This, with the value of the stock of material on hand, should tally with what has been originally paid for materials of mats or baskets." Some light is thrown on the view of all concerned with regard to these pecuniary details by a letter from Levy, dated 5th December 1854, and written from W. H. Levy's Repository for Articles Manufactured by the Blind Books and apparatus for their use 83 Cromer Street Brunswick Square. He writes with regard to a description of mat which only one man, Burr, can make, so that it will take him two or three weeks to execute an order from Brighton, wanted immediately. He asks Miss Gilbert to have the kindness to advise him concerning this matter, and says he has enclosed last week's accounts, but is "fearful through the multiplicity of business that the items, although correct in general, are somewhat confused in detail." Then follows a lengthy superscription-- I remain Dr. Madam with Gratitude and Respect Your obedient Humble S^t. W. H. LEVY. The "confusion in detail" seems to have been considerable, and Mr. Gilbert's summary for 1854 was as follows:-- Total of disbursements on Levy's account £159 11 0 Total of Mandeville's bills not entered 60 5 8 ------------ £219 16 8 Total of receipts for material (presumably from workmen) £54 4 11 Total of other receipts (presumably sales) 32 8 9 ------------ Total receipts £86 13 8 Loss 133 3 0 To this are added the following remarks:-- This account is only approximate. To the disbursement should certainly be added about £6 paid to Levy for himself and not entered, and one lost bill of Mandeville's (£4: 18: 6), if not more than one. The receipts also are probably imperfect. The word _loss_ is one that would not approve itself to either of those chiefly concerned. Bessie was _giving_ freely of her income, Levy was spending economically and carefully. Each knew that there was no error, though there might be irregularities which seemed considerable to those who were not primarily concerned in the great cause. For three months in 1855 there follow a most bewildering series of accounts. Disbursements, receipts, sales, and a few donations are all entered on one page. Such a course probably induced further remonstrance from _the sighted_, and in March 1855 a more orderly system is adopted. Receipts and disbursements are neatly kept on separate pages, and confusion henceforth ceases. We may recall that Bessie always hated "sums," and found them bewildering. She was, however, very accurate in mental calculation. She knew what money she had advanced, on what occasions and to whom. No amount was omitted or entered twice over in her memory. It was only by slow degrees that she learnt the value of written records, the nature of them, and the necessity of absolute accuracy in matters of business. Ledgers and cash books and journals at first indicated merely a certain incapacity in _the sighted_; but time and experience taught her that they were indispensable. The work of the Repository had engrossed much of her time, but in the summer she accompanied her parents and other members of the family on a tour in Scotland. She was in very good health, and walked with a brother and sister from Stirling to Bannockburn and back. Her love of early Scottish history gave her a special interest in the places visited. As they drove through Glencoe it was carefully described to her. Inverness, as being near Culloden, was specially attractive. At Oban she heard of the taking of Sebastopol, and this recalled her to the interests and anxieties of that time. She enjoyed staying at Scotch hotels; but on the whole she had derived less pleasure from the Scotch than from the Irish tour. She found nothing so beautiful as the Killarney echoes, and missed the warm-hearted sympathy and genuine interest of the Irish peasantry and guides. The one point that stood out pre-eminent as the outcome of her visit to Scotland was her inspection of the School for the Blind in Edinburgh. The work done there gave her many ideas, inspired many hopes and plans. But she saw more clearly than ever that her scheme was a new departure, and returned with confidence in her own power, and that of her blind workmen, to carry it forward. CHAPTER VIII ROYAL BOUNTY ... "From the cheerful ways of men Cut off, and for the book of knowledge fair Presented with a universal blank Of nature's works."...--MILTON. We must remember that Bessie's scheme was at first a private matter, and that there is no reason why a blind lady's accounts should be kept like a tradesman's books. Bessie Gilbert had arranged that her weekly bills should be copied by members of her family rather for their information than for her own. So far as she was concerned she could remember what she gave, and had only to take care not to exceed her income. This seemed at first a simple matter, but before long the increased expenditure in connection with "the Repository" began to be a source of anxiety. The sale of goods entailed very serious loss. The workmen received the full selling price of articles minus the cost of material, and Bessie bore all charges and expenses, so that any considerable development of the trade would have left the promoter of it penniless. Moreover, it was inexpedient to pay workmen as wages what was in reality a gift. If they had received trade prices they could not have lived on what they earned. Their work was much slower than that of the sighted, and they had less of it. These conditions made the scheme an experiment; and in the meantime the difficulty of the workmen was surmounted by giving them everything. They executed an order for the trade or for an individual when it was obtained, lived on the money, and waited for another order. This seemed inevitable at the time; but the mistake was that for many years the men considered the large sums paid as wages to be really their due. Now if wages had from the first been fixed on the ordinary scale, and an additional sum given as bonus, many subsequent difficulties might have been avoided. About five-sixths of the articles produced by the seven workmen were sold in the trade at a discount of from 25 to 40 per cent, the latter being the ordinary sum demanded and allowed. A further discount of 25 per cent was allowed to the blind salesman. Thus a deficiency of from 50 to 65 per cent had to be made up on all articles sold to the trade, to which must be added the cost of rent, manager's salary, printing, porters, etc. To the blind lady and her assistant the only method that suggested itself for the reduction of expenses was, that the articles manufactured should be sold to the public and not to the trade. They must have, not a repository but a shop, and a shop in a public thoroughfare. They must make appeals for _custom_, and then income would suffice for the expenses of management. It is doubtful whether Bessie ever wrote a letter after 1855, save to members of the family, without an allusion to the urgent need of customers. The work of the institution grew steadily, the number of applicants for work increased. In reply to appeals for custom, donations were beginning to come in, offers of subscription also, and it was evident that the enterprise, begun in the cellar, was to grow and develop. Bessie found that to make provision for supplying work, only in the homes of the blind, would seriously restrict the industries to be carried on, some of which required a special workshop. She saw that much more would be done for the blind in a shop or factory, where they would find the requisite material, often bulky as well as costly, and the requisite appliances. These could not be provided in the single room of a blind man with a wife and family. There was also a daily increasing demand amongst the blind, not for charity but for work. It was not men only who applied. Poor, respectable women, condemned by blindness and poverty either to beggary or the workhouse, began to turn to her, to implore her to save them also, to teach them a trade, and enable them to earn an honest living. The opportunity for the employment of women was not to come for a year or two, but the appeal issued on the behalf of work for blind _men_ was changed to one on behalf of blind _persons_. After six months in the Holborn cellars and eight months in the little room in Cromer Street, it was decided that Levy should take a house and shop at 21 South Row, New Road (now Euston Road), and that in the first instance four rooms should be rented by Bessie at £26 a year. Levy was henceforward to receive 12s. 6d. a week as manager, and his wife was to serve behind the counter and to have, as a temporary arrangement, 25 per cent on all articles sold in the shop. This increase in the expenses made it necessary that Bessie should obtain help from the outside public; and the change of her work from a private to a public undertaking was anxiously discussed in her own home. The Bishop urged that there should be a Committee of Management as soon as subscriptions were asked for; and pointed out to his daughter the responsibility of administering money belonging to others. Having done this he left the matter in her hands, and she, like a dutiful child, submits her case when she has come to a decision. She writes on her Foucault frame in July 1855, from 31 Queen Anne Street:-- MY DEAR PAPA--I wanted to have spoken to you about what I am now going to write, but had no good opportunity before you went. The situation of the shop in Cromer Street stands very much in the way of the sale of my mats and baskets. No one goes into that street unless they go on purpose, therefore I am sure it would be better to move into a really good situation, which I cannot do without subscriptions. Mr. Taylor has said a good deal about the situation being a great hindrance to the sale of the work, so have several people, so now what I wish to tell you is that if you see nothing to the contrary in the meantime, I shall begin on Monday to ask for subscriptions. I have three promises, four rather, and I know I should soon get more.... I remain, ever your dutiful and loving child, BESSIE GILBERT. You see I have taken rather for granted that you would have no objection, and so as there is not much time now before we go, I said Monday; as I thought it would be better to begin as soon as I could. To this the Bishop replied: PALACE, CHICHESTER, _6th July 1855_. MY DEAR BESSIE--Your letter was nicely written, and I read it for myself very fluently. If it must be so, it must; indeed you could not launch into a high-rented house without subscribers. You may put me down low in the list for five pounds [£5] a year. I do not think you will do very much now until next spring, but you may make a beginning. It will grow under God's blessing. You must let me know, before I go into the North, what sum must be left accessible at Hoare's for the wants of E. M. M. G. Levi and Co.--I am, my dearest Bessie, yr. ever affectionate father, R. T. CICEST^R. On the 13th July Bessie writes again from Queen Anne Street: MY DEAR PAPA--I would not be troublesome if I could help it, but I cannot help it. I do think it would be well for my undertaking to form a Society, and I want to know if I may set to work to do whatever I can towards it. I send you a list of the people Henrietta [a sister] and I have thought of for the Committee. Would you mention any you think advisable? Of course I cannot tell that any named in this list will agree to the proposal, so that it will be well to be prepared with a good choice. Mr. Green and Mr. Futvoye I am sure of, and Mr. Green will subscribe five guineas a year. I am very anxious to get all this settled before leaving this year, and as people will be leaving town soon, when once I have your sanction I shall write to the people thought of, to ask them whether they will undertake it. Of course there will only be a few who will really work, but we must have names besides. I send you a copy of the proposed rules. My notion is not to have a public meeting this year, but only to let the Committee meet, and to hire a room for this purpose. Levy suggested that Mr. Taylor should visit the workmen at their homes. I think he would do this well. Our love to mamma. We hope she is better.--Your loving, dutiful child, BESSIE GILBERT. The Bishop's reply has not been preserved; but as the first Committee consists of persons selected from the list furnished, he probably had few changes to suggest, and in forming a committee Bessie was carrying out advice he had previously given. An appeal to the public was drawn up by her, of which the following is a copy. On the reverse was a list of goods made by the blind, with prices. The public was informed that these articles were superior in durability and equal in price to those ordinarily offered. It was hoped that the circumstance of their being entirely made by blind men would induce purchasers to encourage the industry of those who labour under peculiar disadvantages in obtaining employment. ASSOCIATION FOR PROMOTING THE GENERAL WELFARE OF THE BLIND. In addition to the many difficulties which the loss of sight imposes on all blind persons, those whose livelihood depends upon their own exertions labour under three great disadvantages. 1. Comparatively few have an opportunity of acquiring a trade. 2. The trades taught are very few in number. 3. Those who have acquired an industrial art rarely obtain constant employment or a market for their manufactures. In consequence of these difficulties great numbers are reduced to a state of beggary and degradation. These would, as a class, be only too thankful to be enabled practically to refute the prevailing idea that a life of pauperism, or at best of dependence upon almsgiving, is an inevitable necessity of their condition. It is surely the duty of the community at large to afford them an opportunity of so doing, and thus enable them to take their right position as active and useful members of society. An undertaking was set on foot in May 1854 by a blind lady to ensure regular employment to blind working men. This has been gradually extended, so that the number now employed is fourteen; and a department for teaching new trades has been added, at which there are six pupils, particular attention being paid to the instruction of those who, on account of age, are ineligible for admission to other institutions. The mental and religious welfare of the blind is also sought; and a circulating library of books in relief type has been established, to which the indigent are admitted free of charge. To secure the continuance of the above undertaking, and in the hope of its becoming, under God's blessing, gradually enlarged, and eventually to a great extent a self-supporting National Institution, an Association is now formed under the above title, whose Committee, including the original promoter of the undertaking, earnestly solicit the active support of all who acknowledge its claims on the sympathy of the public. Then follow the names of the first Committee. The Treasurer, Henry Sykes Thornton, Esq., 20 Birchin Lane. COMMITTEE. Adams, James, Esq., 2 College Villas, Upper Finchley Road. Anson, Sir John, Bart., 55 Portland Place. Dale, Rev. Thomas, Canon of St. Paul's, 31 Gordon Square. Dixon, James, Esq., 1 Portman Square. Dyke, Charles, Esq., R.N., 6 Eaton Square. Elmsley, William, Esq., Q.C., 46 Harley Street. Futvoye, Edward, Esq., 8 Acacia Road, St. John's Wood. Gilbert, Miss, 43 Queen Anne Street, and Palace, Chichester. Glennie, Rev. John D., junr., 51 Green Street, Grosvenor Square. Green, Frederic, Esq., West Lodge, Avenue Road, Regent's Park. Hollond, Mrs. Robert, Stanmore Hall, near Harrow, and 63 Portland Place. Johnson, George, Esq., M.D., 3 Woburn Square. King, Henry, Esq., 8 Lowndes Street. Kynaston, Rev. H., D.D., St. Paul's Churchyard. Powell, Mrs., 2 Palace Gardens, Kensington. Summers, William, Esq., 10 Great Marlborough Street, Regent Street. Bathurst, Henry A., Esq., 101 Baker Street, } Portman Square, and 12 and 13 Great } Knightrider Street, } Auditors. } Wintle, R. W., Esq., 10 Tavistock Square, and } 22 Old Square, Lincoln's Inn, } Fyers, Captain, R.A., 3 Westbourne Place, Paddington, Hon. Sec. Superintendent and Collector, Mr. William Hanks Levy, 21 South Row, New Road. The projected Committee seems not to have acted in 1855, as at the end of the year the account-book shows no sign of the supervision of auditors. The disbursements for the year had been £323 1 1 The receipts stand as 141 5 4 --------- No balance is drawn, but the sum contributed by Bessie must have been £181 15 9 Her efforts on behalf of the blind met with grateful recognition. Amongst the letters which she valued and preserved is one which belongs to this period; it was probably written in the winter of 1855-56. The paper is old and ragged, doubtless the letter has often been read aloud to her and to others. It is undated, and for obvious reasons unsigned, the blind workmen could not write their names; orthography and punctuation are uncertain, and capital letters scattered at random. The scribe employed wrote badly and spelt imperfectly, but no doubt the letter was a genuine one, the outcome of warm though somewhat incoherent feelings of gratitude and affection. She to whom it was addressed knew this, and prized the poor letter accordingly. The spelling is now corrected, and some punctuation attempted in order not too greatly to bewilder the reader. The humble address of Blind Workmen employed by their benefactor Miss Gilbert to the Same. MADAM--We the recipients of your bounty beg permission to be allowed to express our gratitude collectively for the benefits we have received from the Society instituted and under your governance. With the deepest feelings of gratitude we have to thank you for the great assistance during the last severe winter and the constant support we have when no other work was to be procured. We look upon this society as a time arrived in which our Heavenly Father has placed in your hands the deliverance of the blind from the worst of their afflictions, namely the Sting of Poverty. Madam, we are assured it is a difficult undertaking and must be a great trouble to contend with Tradesmen and to show forth our capabilities. We must acknowledge that it is moved by God's influence. It is what has been wanted since England has been a nation, for a country so great not to employ their own blind in a permanent manner appears to be a thing which no one till the present ever attempted. We have considered that the truest manner to show our gratitude and Satisfaction for the benefits received would be allowed to present a small permanent testimonial which shall impress on all minds the great blessing conferred upon us, and how thankfully it is received by your humble Servants. There is nothing to indicate the nature of the "permanent testimonial," nor that it was ever presented; but the wish to make some return for benefits received, and the gratitude for work done on their behalf, could not fail to encourage the blind lady. She had now the moral support of her Committee, but there was at this time no Association, properly so called. No rules had been drawn up, there were no Committee Meetings, and Bessie had not only to "contend with tradesmen," but to conduct in the best way she could "the sale of my mats and baskets." Levy was strongly impressed with the necessity of showing the capacity of the blind, their power as well as their desire to work. It was necessary to ascertain what trades it was possible for them to follow, what trades were open to them, and under what conditions. He had found by his own inquiry that the greater number of the blind poor were willing to work; he now occupied himself, with Bessie's approval, in making experiments in various handicrafts. She had acquiesced in his wish that none but blind persons should be employed in the Institution, and that no trades should be carried on there except such as the blind could work at unaided. Her own experience, as well as the theory of her parents, had shown that more can be done for the blind by including them with, than by separating them from the sighted. But the argument to which she yielded was one often urged by Levy: that it would be impossible to interest the public in the scheme, unless the blind worked unaided, and it was made clear that they were capable of following a trade. He also urged, and with more reason, that the teacher of the blind should be a blind man, who knows from his own experience the difficulties and the limitations of blindness, and who has overcome them; for the teacher who knows these only from theory will not have so intelligent an appreciation of them, nor be so likely to discover the aids required by the blind. No one could have worked with more enthusiasm or energy than Levy himself. He learnt trades and tried experiments with tools, introduced brush-making, and prepared the way for the great development which he and Bessie now foresaw. She also was not idle; the possibility of employing women was always before her, and she made experiments with regard to occupations that might be suitable for them. Her private scheme was now about to expand into an Association managed by a Committee. Before the final step was taken she wished to secure all the objects for which she had hitherto laboured, and to prepare for the changes which were imminent. She endeavoured to obtain friends and allies, and the success which attended her efforts was no doubt in part owing to the fact that she was the daughter of a bishop and was herself blind. She was spared the long and weary search for patrons and support to which many are condemned. Her name, her position, her privation, secured immediate attention from those who were able to give both money and influence. So great was her success, that in the winter of 1855 she decided, all the necessary preliminaries having been arranged, to appeal to the Queen. In January 1856 she sent to the Queen an autograph letter, written on her Foucault frame, and with the consent of Her Majesty the correspondence is now reproduced: MADAM--The loving care ever shown by your Majesty for the welfare of your subjects, together with the benevolent interest which your Majesty and your Royal Consort are so well known to take in works of mercy, have emboldened me most humbly to pray for the gracious condescension of your Majesty and your Royal Consort towards an undertaking for employing the blind which has been carried on during the past year and a half, on so limited a scale that but very few have derived benefit from it. Being myself blind, I have been led to take a deep interest in the blind, of whom there are stated to be twenty-seven thousand in Great Britain and Ireland, out of which number but a small proportion can be received into the existing institutions, on leaving which many even of this number are reduced to beggary from the difficulty they find in obtaining employment. Could the endeavour to remedy this evil become truly national, the condition of the blind, as a class, would, with the blessing of God, be materially raised and improved, and this nothing could so effectually ensure as the sanction and gracious patronage of your Majesty and of your Royal Consort. The plan of the undertaking for which I have ventured humbly to plead with your most gracious Majesty, is to ensure to the blind workman a fixed sum weekly, in remuneration for his labour; and also to teach those too old for admission into institutions, some trade. Should your Majesty be pleased of your gracious condescension to grant this request, the hearts of your Majesty's blind subjects will be ever bound to your Majesty in love and gratitude.--Your Majesty's most dutiful, loyal, devoted, humble servant, E. M. GILBERT. Perhaps at this point one may venture to call attention to the fact that a person born blind or blind in early life can seldom spell quite correctly. The training of the eye tells for much in the English language, and the unaided memory cannot be relied upon. Bessie's autograph letters are rarely free from defects; and the letter here copied may have been discarded when it was found on supervision to contain _admition_ for admission, _Concert_ for Consort, and one or two other trifling inaccuracies. Some of her intuitions in spelling--only think in how many cases a blind person's spelling must be intuitive--are delightful. She gives instruction for a letter to be written to the Rector of Marlbourne, our old friend Marylebone, and speaks of a statement she remembers in De Feau. The autograph letter to the Queen was duly corrected, no doubt, and despatched. It elicited the following reply from Colonel Phipps: TO MISS GILBERT. WINDSOR CASTLE, _15th January 1856_. MADAM--I have received the commands of Her Majesty the Queen to inform you in reply to your application, dated the 11th instant, that that paper does not contain sufficient intelligence with regard to the institution which you advocate, to enable Her Majesty to form any judgment upon it. I am therefore directed to request that you will have the goodness to forward to me the prospectus of the institution in question, containing the particulars of its objects, locality, and mode of management, and also an account of its financial position, including a balance-sheet of its income and expenditure. I shall have then an opportunity of bringing the question fully under the consideration of Her Majesty.--I have the honour to be, Madam, your obed. humble servt., C. B. PHIPPS. This letter was the most valuable contribution yet received, and the suggestion of a balance-sheet the most practical thing done on behalf of the scheme. There was immediate and anxious effort to comply with the suggestions made, and on the 1st of February the details, dignified by the title of "a Report" with such balance-sheet as could be produced, was forwarded to Her Majesty. The reply of Colonel Phipps was again prompt, and as Bessie justly considered it, "very gracious." TO MISS GILBERT. WINDSOR CASTLE, _4th February 1856_. Colonel Phipps presents his compliments to Miss Gilbert. He has laid the papers relative to her scheme for the employment of the blind before Her Majesty the Queen, and has received Her Majesty's commands to forward to her the accompanying cheque for £50 towards the funds of this establishment, which promises to be so useful to persons labouring under privation which particularly entitles them to compassion. Should the plan prove successful, as Her Majesty hopes it may, and have the appearance of becoming permanent, Colonel Phipps is commanded to request that a further report may be made through him to Her Majesty. The kindly hand thus held out by the Queen to her blind subjects gave a great and valuable impetus to the work. The Duchess of Gloucester sent a donation through Colonel Liddell. Subscribers and donors came forward in sufficient numbers to show that if blind men wanted work, both work and wages would be provided. CHAPTER IX REMOVING STUMBLING-BLOCKS "Give unto me, made lowly wise, The spirit of self-sacrifice."--WORDSWORTH. Throughout 1856 Bessie was mainly occupied in writing letters to all and sundry. She wanted money, and more even than money, she wanted custom. From the very first she saw that customers were of greater importance to her than subscribers, for it was customers who could ensure the stability and permanence of her scheme. If the blind were to be employed, there must be a sale for the articles produced; and the greater the sale the larger would be the number of workmen required. Hence the sale of goods, the appointment of agents in country towns, and the sending out of price lists, were important matters. She received help and encouragement from many friends. Letters, which came from those who had known and loved her as a child, gave her great pleasure, and were carefully preserved. The following is from a former fellow of Brasenose, the Rev. J. Watson: OXFORD, _2d June 1856_. MY DEAR BESSIE--I fear I shall not quite respond to your wishes exactly in the way you desire. But I will do something; I am not fond of annuals, I forget them; and arrears are discreditable. Nor indeed am I sure but that the enclosed (£10) may be more effectual than an annual £1. _Vita brevis._ All nations have some prudential maxims about present possession. La Fontaine has a fable to the point, but I cannot call it up. There is our own famous English proverb, the very Magna Charta of prudential security. A bird actually in grip is worth the more abundant but doubtful contingencies of the distant bush. I am glad, however, of the opportunity of being able to do so much in the way of donation, following in a modest way the example of our most gracious Queen and governor. Thankful too I hope that, being reduced myself to almost a state of helplessness by the same calamity, I am not obliged to appeal to the charity of others; and have even something to give to relieve the necessities of fellow-sufferers. So much for request second. As to request first, I will do what I can. But I am a bad beggar, and people are not very easily persuaded (far from it); 6d. in the pound property tax, poor rates, champagne, lighting, anything will do to stop the mouth of a petitioner. I doubt not in the range of your philanthropical experience you have met with many a cold shoulder. I believe you might disperse a mob more effectually by the exhibition of a subscription list than by reading the Riot Act. It is very useful in clearing your room of officious visitors. Produce a list for the conversion of somebody to some thing which he was not before (to wit, the Pope to a coadjutor of Dr. Cumming or Lord John Russell to an honest statesman), and, presto! the whole scene changes. "Well, Watson," says one, "I must be off, I have several calls to make." "Bless me," says another, taking out his watch, "it's getting on to half-past five (the clock has just struck three) and it's my week to read in Chapel." Helter-skelter away they go, like Leonora pursued by the ghosts. Der Mond scheint hell, Hurrah! die Todten reiten schnell. Well, Bessie, you have called up old times. Merry days they were, and have left no sting. I sometimes see Mary. I go occasionally to Didcot, where there are nice children; but Milton Hill is just a mile and a half too far off. I can't walk as I could in those days when we used to saunter through the scented glades of the happy valley, or penetrate the mysterious horrors of Bagley. The last fragment of those excursions was with Fanny and Henrietta to Headington and round by Marston (as intended), but time was getting on, and your good uncle would be waiting for his dinner. So in an evil hour we made a short cut across the fields and verified the proverb,--Hedges without a gap; ditches without a plank; gates guarded with _chevaux de frise_ of prickly thorns. It was then that Henrietta, madly pushing at an impracticable passage, uttered that famous parody: I'll brave the scratching of the thorn, But not a hungry uncle. But I am spinning out a double-thrummed homily, and you have better things to attend to. My love to you all. Believe me, my dear Bessie, _vuestros hasta la muerte_, J. WATSON. Bessie had sent as a Christmas present to Dr. Kynaston a silk watch-chain of her own make, a favourite gift of hers to dear friends. In his reply the doctor proposes to make an appeal to the public on behalf of the blind. He writes: ST. PAUL'S, _26th December 1856_. MY DEAR BESSIE--Your pleasing remembrance both of me and of old times was a happy and early beginning to me of yesterday's holy celebrations. I think you over-rate my love of flowers. Till we used to pick them together, I fear I was but a Peter Bellish sort of being, of whom it is said that A primrose by the river's brim A yellow primrose was to him, And it was nothing more. I seldom look at wild flowers now but I think how you used then to take them in your hands and feel them, and exclaim, "How beautiful they are," admiring and loving them far more than any of us, I always believed. The chain, too, is highly prized, and I am delighted to show it to my friends, and both to tell them that you could work it, and that it was worked for me. I feel almost inclined to draw up a short account of your institution, with a little memoir of the foundress, appending some of the verses suggested in former years to my mind by your cheerful and happy contentedness in the midst of those sad privations which you now seek to alleviate in others. Circulated together with the more official and, of course, less affectionate "statement" which was lately sent about, a little memoir of this kind might do good to the cause. I should entitle it "God's Fondness to the Blind," and it need not exceed many pages. If you approve I will set about it at once, and let you have the results of my labour of love in the shape of proof sheets in a few days. We join heartily in wishing you and all your home party a happy Christmas, and with much affection, I am always, my dear Bessie, most truly yours, H. KYNASTON. Miss Gilbert, Chichester. Dr. Kynaston's suggestion was not carried out, it must have been most distasteful to Bessie. Just in proportion to her desire to make known the cause for which she worked was her dislike to personal notoriety. She felt keenly moreover, and at all times, the pain of becoming remarkable through a calamity or a defect. She could appreciate the writer's motive, and would answer kindly and gratefully; but the proposal was at once put firmly aside. Her eldest brother, Mr. Wintle (he had taken his grandfather's name), gave her much valuable assistance during 1856. He and Mr. Henry Bathurst, brother of her friend Caroline Bathurst, acted somewhat informally as auditors during the year, compared vouchers, examined bills, and no doubt enlightened her as to the method of book-keeping which would have to be adopted so soon as the Committee was fairly established, and had taken over the management of the institution. This was not done until January 1857. Bessie was probably anxious to draw up rules for the institution which should embody her own views; but during the infancy of the scheme she saw that she had not adequate knowledge upon which to establish them. She had still much to learn as to the powers as well as the defects of the blind, and she shrank from legislation until she understood "her people." Mr. Wintle opened an account at Drummond's, a "Fund for employing the Blind," to which donations and subscriptions were paid. In reply to her own appeals, as well as in consequence of newspaper accounts and sermons, she received many letters. From all parts of the United Kingdom persons interested in the blind applied to her for advice, or wrote on behalf of men who professed a desire to learn a trade and earn their own living. Some of these were really in earnest, but many were not. When arrangements had been made to send them to work in London they drew back. Bessie was not discouraged. She became more than ever convinced that the life of a beggar is demoralising; but she knew that already, and had long seen that old people will not give up begging, and that all efforts to improve their condition must be made on behalf of the young. An extract from a single letter will suffice to show the frequent result of a prolonged correspondence and of final arrangements to receive a blind man as pupil: I was delighted to see Miss Gilbert's letter, and immediately had a talk with him [the blind man] which was not satisfactory, for he said that, even if we should succeed in getting him the employment, he is sure he could not support himself by work, as he was a much shorter time under instruction than is usually the case.... He seems to think he can do better by making a basket occasionally and carrying it about the streets for sale, and begging of the few people who know him. I am sorry it ends so for the present, for I think his case a very distressing one. He was born in New York, and has no parish in England; he has one tiny child here who leads him about. His wife, with, I think, two more children, is in the Bristol Union. Many similar cases helped Bessie to understand those on whose behalf she laboured; but they never closed her heart to the appeal of a blind person who was in need. The area of her work was enlarged, as well as that of the aid which enabled her to carry it on. Not all those who clamoured for employment really wanted it. They meant _alms_ when they said _wages_, and drew back in disgust from the offer to teach them a trade and make them self-supporting. They were often even more degraded and vicious than poor. To see and know this, and yet not to lose heart, to "hold fast to that which is good" when evil abounds, is a difficult task. Bessie did not shrink from it, and she did not misunderstand her work. She was merciful and compassionate to those who had fallen, felt for them in the solitude, the poverty, the despair that had driven them to evil courses, would relieve them in actual want, but she soon learnt that nothing could be done with or for them in the workroom. They might be reached, and indeed must be reached by other agencies, but the _teacher_ could do nothing. The practical outcome of this experience was extreme care in selecting the persons to be taught and employed, and a very tender compassion in reference even to the hopeless and abandoned. Their lonely, sad condition was never overlooked. Bessie was very cautious in the selection of members of the Committee who would henceforth govern the Institution, and a letter written about this time on her Foucault frame to an old Oxford friend will be read with interest. She not only wrote many of her own letters at this time, but addressed her own envelopes, and very puzzling the postman must have sometimes found them. PALACE, CHICHESTER, _16th January 1857_. MY DEAR MRS. B.--I hope you will not think this letter very troublesome, but I know not in what other way I can gain the information I wish than by troubling you with these lines. I remember you have heard of my undertaking for employing blind workmen. I have now formed an Association under the title of "The Association for promoting the general welfare of the Blind," in order to extend its usefulness, and to place it upon a more permanent footing than it could have had when in the hands of one individual. Now my object in writing to you is to ask whether Mr. A., who is, I believe, a clergyman at C., knows or could find out anything about a Mr. D., living, I believe, at C. He is a very large fur dealer, very rich; he is blind, and I am anxious to have him on the Committee of the Association, but must know more about him before this can be done. He has a warehouse in the city, I think, in Cannon Street or Cannon Street West. I want all the information I can get with regard to his character and principles, etc. I thought perhaps you would be able to get this for me through Mr. A.'s family, or direct from himself if you would kindly write to him on the subject. I send you some of the present price lists. Brushes, hassocks, and servants' kneelers are now made, besides mats and baskets. By far the greater number of the blind become so after the age at which they can be admitted into institutions, so that in most cases these have not even the opportunity of learning anything by which they can earn a living. I am anxious to have this want supplied, and six are now being taught trades who would not be admitted into other institutions, and this branch will, I hope, be gradually very much extended. Then there is a circulating library in raised books to which the poor can belong free of charge, and others by paying the subscription required by the Committee. If you think it would be well, and will tell me so, I will write to Mr. A., but as I thought you knew him, or, at all events, his family, I thought perhaps you would be able, and would kindly undertake the matter, which is only one of inquiry. We are a large family party now. M. with her husband and three children, and E. with her two children, are all here. Robert is gone back to London and law. Papa and mamma are really very well, and would send kind messages did they know I was writing. I hope you can give a good account of Mr. B. With very kind New-Year greetings from us all to him and yourself--I am most sincerely yours, BESSIE GILBERT. During the whole of 1856 the possibility of giving employment to women as well as men had been occupying Bessie's close attention, and it was one of the things she wished to arrange whilst the management was in her own hands. She found that the ordinary work of blind women, knitting, crochet, etc., could not be relied upon as a means of livelihood. Experiments had to be made in brush making, chair caning, basket work, wood chopping, and the trades that were being opened up for blind men. These unremunerative experiments might not be sanctioned by a Committee; and in fact the greater number of those made and the decision with regard to them date back to the time when Bessie was the supreme and ultimate authority; and they were made at her own cost. By the close of 1856 she had drawn up a set of rules to be submitted to the Committee. One of the most important of these was that a Sub-Committee should be appointed, whose duty it was to select the blind persons to be employed. She would not hear of giving votes to subscribers and enabling them to force upon the institution worthless and incompetent persons. Careful selection was essential to her scheme, and was one of the chief causes of its early success. Another matter which she deemed of importance was a stipulation that the "present superintendent, William Hanks Levy, is to be continued in his office until he shall withdraw, or be removed by the General Committee." The rules recapitulate the object and set forth the work of the Association. They were submitted to a general meeting of the subscribers, held on the 19th December 1856. The meeting having first resolved itself into the Association for Promoting the General Welfare of the Blind, unanimously approved of the rules, and adopted them as the laws of the Association. They are interesting as the outcome of Bessie's endeavours to ameliorate the condition of the blind, and are therefore given at the end of the chapter. A Committee was appointed on the 1st of January 1857, and in May of the same year a report was issued, with a balance-sheet, showing subscriptions and donations to the amount of £435, £75 of which had been contributed by Bessie herself. Interesting tables were appended, giving the age, address, cause of blindness, family, income, to what amount employed by the institution, and nature of trade of all men working for the Euston Road shop, together with similar lists of men and women desiring employment, of applicants at the institution, and of members of the circulating library. The three months' report was a preliminary to a meeting held in Willis's Rooms on the 26th of May 1857. The Bishop of London was in the chair, the Bishop of Oxford spoke, and afterwards wrote to Mrs. Gilbert: LAVINGTON HOUSE, PETWORTH, _30th May 1857_. MY DEAR MRS. GILBERT--I must tell you with many thanks what pleasure your kind letter gave me, and how glad I was to be able to take part in _that_ meeting. I did not at all please myself in what I said, _because_ I wanted to show in the instance of your own daughter how God brought good out of such suffering; how the inward character, intensifying and become sanctified by grace, made the sufferers as an angel in the house, do what otherwise they never would have done, by the example of her becoming the foundress of this institution--but she was present, and I could not trust myself to say all I felt. May God's blessing rest abundantly on this good work.--I am ever, most sincerely yours, S. OXON. Mrs. Gilbert. We have now the result of Bessie's three years of arduous labour. Her institution was fairly afloat. The Bishop of London had consented to act as president, and the Rev. Thomas Dale, Canon of St. Paul's, was the vice-president. Notices of the meeting appeared in the London papers, and were copied in provincial papers. Donations, inquiries, and orders increased, and so did applications for employment from blind men and women. The Bishop of Chichester had written a prayer to be read before Committee meetings, and this prayer was used by Bessie until the last day of her life. She looked upon it as a solemn sign of her father's approval, and as sanctifying all her efforts on behalf of the blind.[6] No period of her life was so rich and full as the few years that followed the first development of her scheme. She was surrounded by friends who were enthusiastic in the cause, ready to serve her, and willing that she should guide and control the work which she had initiated. Some of those who gathered round her in 1857 are still working for the institution. Captain, afterwards Colonel Fyers, who for a time filled the part of honorary secretary, was a faithful and generous friend to the blind from 1857 until his death in July 1886. Mr. Summers still sits on the Committee. One of the first things done by the Committee was to take a lease of the house occupied by Levy, then known as 21 South Row, and subsequently as 127 Euston Road. It was prepared as a factory for the blind. Rooms were set apart for the various trades, and the requisite fittings and tools were supplied. A large front room on the first floor was assigned to women. Many informalities and irregularities which had sprung up insensibly whilst the undertaking was small and private had now to be abolished. The Committee directed that subscriptions and donations should no longer pass through the trade cash book, and we may assume that a strict method of book-keeping was adopted. An initial difficulty there was, and always will be, in the management, by amateurs, of business which involves the purchase of material from foreign markets. Prices rise and fall, quality is open to deception, wages have also to be adjusted, and manufactured goods must be sold wholesale as well as retail. This is taken in hand by a Committee consisting of ladies and gentlemen, many of whom could probably not dispose of a basket of oranges on advantageous terms. Bessie herself by this time had acquired considerable information in matters of business, and she knew the difficulties that surrounded her. Practical knowledge of this kind would have justly given her a prominent place on any Committee. Her own Committee placed her without hesitation in a position from which she was never deposed. They looked upon themselves as elected to carry out her aims and objects for the blind, and they believed her to be the best guide they could have. She on her side gave her whole time and attention to the mastery of all the intricacies of trade and mysteries of book-keeping. She was soon familiar with stock-book, ledger, cash-book, and banker's accounts. When she discovered that her wish would be law, she became doubly anxious and scrupulous. She had always treated every one around her with courtesy and generous consideration, and now to the grace of nature was added a strong sense of the duty she owed to those who trusted her and relied upon her. She was careful to ascertain the wishes of her Committee upon every subject to be presented to them, and she never urged her own views until she saw that her friends were ready to receive them. One further development of her work was of doubtful utility. Schools to teach reading to the blind were formed in different parts of London. Each scholar was paid threepence for his or her attendance, and guides were also paid for. It was found some years later that classes for the blind, under similar conditions, were rather extensively carried on, were indeed a favourite form of private benevolence, and that there were blind men and women who earned a living by going about as pupils. RULES FOR GENERAL MANAGEMENT. _Title._ 1. That this Society be denominated THE BRITISH ASSOCIATION FOR PROMOTING THE GENERAL WELFARE OF THE BLIND. _Objects._ 2. That the more immediate objects of this Association shall be to afford employment to those blind persons who, for want of work, have been compelled to solicit alms, or who may be likely to be tempted to do so. To cause those unacquainted with a trade to be instructed in some industrial art, and to introduce trades hitherto unpractised by the blind. To support a Circulating Library consisting of books in various systems of relief printing, to the advantages of which the indigent blind shall be admitted free of charge, and others by paying the subscription required by the Committee. To collect and disseminate information relative to the physical, mental, moral, and religious conditions of the blind. To promote amongst the supporters of the various institutions for their benefit, and among other friends of the blind, a reciprocal interchange of the results of their efforts for ameliorating their condition. _Members._ 3. That donors of £5:5s. at one time shall be life members of the Association, and subscribers of half a guinea annually, members so long as they shall continue such subscriptions. _Committee._ 4. That the management of the affairs of the Association be vested in a General Committee, to consist of the founder, Miss Gilbert, and two ladies chosen by her, a President, Vice-President, Treasurer, and seven gentlemen, to be chosen annually by the members from among themselves; which General Committee shall meet on the first Wednesday in February, May, August, and November, or oftener if necessary; three to be a quorum. 4b. That out of the fourteen elected members of the Committee, Miss Gilbert shall nominate one to be Vice-President, who, together with herself, the two ladies chosen by her, and two gentlemen, elected from among their own number by the President, Treasurer, and gentlemen of the General Committee, shall be a Sub-Committee, whose business it shall be to select the blind persons to be employed by the Association, and to regulate the details, subject to the correction of the General Committee. This Sub-Committee to meet at least once a fortnight, and three to be a quorum. 4bb. The President or Treasurer shall be capable of being nominated Vice-President, and Miss Gilbert shall have the privilege of introducing at the meetings of either the Committee or Sub-Committee, her mother, or one of her sisters, who may take part in the proceedings, but not vote. _Auditors._ 5. That two subscribers be chosen annually, by the members of the Association, to audit the accounts of the ensuing year. _Treasurer._ 6. The Treasurer shall be elected annually by the members of the Association, and shall present his accounts to the members, and also to the auditors or the Committee whenever required. All drafts upon the Treasurer shall be signed by two members of the Committee. _Annual Meeting of Members._ 7. That a General Meeting of the members of the Association be held annually on the second Wednesday in May, notice thereof to be sent to each subscriber on the first of that month, to receive from the Committee a report of their proceedings, and to appoint the officers for the ensuing year. But should any vacancy occur in the offices of President, Vice-President, Treasurer, Auditors, or gentlemen of the Committee or Sub-Committee, the vacancy shall be supplied by the Committee or by Miss Gilbert, as the case may be, until the next general meeting. _Funded Property._ 8. All monies directed by the Committee to be funded, shall be vested in the joint names of four Trustees, chosen by them, unless otherwise directed by the donors; the dividends arising therefrom shall be received by the Treasurer, and applied to the current expenditure of the Association. As often as any vacancy shall occur among the Trustees, or change appear necessary, the same shall be supplied or effected by the Committee. No general meeting shall have power to sell or appropriate any part of the capital funded property, until the order made by it for such purpose be confirmed by a subsequent annual or extraordinary general meeting, consisting of not less than twenty-four members of the Association, of whom three-fourths at least shall vote for such confirmation. _Auxiliaries._ 9. The Committee shall be empowered to form or to receive into connection with the Association, upon terms to be agreed upon, Auxiliaries in various parts of the kingdom, for the purposes of increasing the funds and extending the utility of the Association. _Special Cases._ 10. The Sub-Committee may in a special case require the patrons or friends of any indigent blind person to pay a donation, or provide an annual subscription of such amount as they shall deem proper and suitable, before admitting the applicant to the benefits provided by the Association. _Secretary and Superintendent._ 11. A Secretary, and likewise a Superintendent of the Repository, shall be appointed by the General Committee, each with a stipend, if necessary. These offices to be held together if the Committee shall so appoint. It shall be the Secretary's business to attend at every meeting of the Committee and Sub-Committee; register the proceedings, and keep the accounts of the Association. He must always be ready to produce the books and accounts fairly written out, to any member of the Committee. On his appointment he shall give such security as shall be required by the Committee, for the performance of the duties of his office, and for the due accounting for such monies as may be paid him for the purposes of the Association. The Superintendent of the Repository shall also give security in like manner as the Secretary, and conduct the business of the Repository with zeal and assiduity. The present superintendent, William Hanks Levy, is to be continued in his office until he shall withdraw, or be removed by the General Committee. He must also be in attendance at each meeting of the Committee or Sub-Committee, and be ready to give information at other times also when required. _Visitor._ 12. That a subscriber who is not a member of Committee be appointed by the Committee to visit the persons employed at their own homes and the Repository, and other premises of the Association, and present to them a quarterly report of the results of his observations. * * * * * BISHOP GILBERT'S PRAYER. _To be offered up at all Meetings of the Committee and Members._ O Lord Jesus Christ, Who, in Thy ministry upon earth, didst make the blind to see, the lame to walk, the deaf to hear, lepers to be cleansed, the dead to be raised up (Matt. xi. 5, Luke vii. 22), and by Thy holy apostle has commanded Thy followers, that we should bear one another's burdens (Gal. vi. 2), regard with Thy favour, we beseech Thee, and aid with Thy blessing, our humble endeavour to remove stumbling-blocks from before the feet of the blind, to smooth their difficulties, and to strengthen their steps. Prosper our efforts, we humbly beseech Thee, O Father, to their worldly relief, and sanctify them, by Thy Spirit, to the increase in us of humility, faith, thankfulness, and charity, and to the growth in our afflicted brethren and sisters of patience and resignation, of goodwill to those around them, and of love to all, with all other graces that adorn the Christian life. Of Thy mercy, O Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, one ever blessed Trinity in Unity, hear our prayer, and accept and bless the work of our hands. O prosper Thou our handiwork. Amen. FOOTNOTE: [6] The prayer is inserted at the end of this chapter. CHAPTER X TRIALS AND TEMPTATIONS "Boundless pity for those who are ignorant, misled, and out of the right way."--KINGSLEY. Bessie was now thirty-two years old, and during 1857, 1858, and part of 1859 she was probably at the height of her power, physical and mental. The physical never amounted to very much. Her health was feeble. She was liable to long fits of depression, to long attacks of headache and prostration, to much suffering from nervous exhaustion. During the year 1857 the progress and development of her work, the encouragement and offers of help which she received, stimulated her to unusual activity. To a great extent she took her life into her own hands, and choosing a confidential maid to accompany her, she visited blind men and women, the institutions established for them, and her own friends, new and old, as well as many influential persons to whom she had received introductions. She made and carried out her own arrangements, and might fairly consider herself emancipated from control. The only restriction placed upon her by her parents and not yet removed was that she should not travel alone. She submitted, but often wished to ascertain for herself, and by experience, if the prohibition was necessary. On one occasion, when travelling from Chichester to London, she sent her maid into an adjacent carriage. She wished to try the experiment of being alone in the train. At the last moment a gentleman rushed into the station, jumped into the first available carriage, that in which she was seated, and had just time to close the door when the train started. Bessie was a little disturbed by this incident. As her companion did not address her, she knew him to be a stranger. She soon found that he was reading a newspaper, and as it was an express train she remembered that she must have his company as far as London. Her companion was not aware that the train was express, and when it dashed through the station at which he had hoped to stop, he---- At this point, when she recounted the adventure, Bessie paused: "What did he do?" was asked. In an awe-struck voice she answered, "He swore----an _oath_." The look of startled pain with which she must have heard that oath passed over her face, and the sensitive mouth quivered. She knew nothing about an oath; she had been told that sometimes there was bad language in a book or in a newspaper, but no one had ever said an oath to her, or read an oath. And now in the solitude of this railway carriage she was shut up with a man,--swearing. "What did _you_ do?" was asked. "I held on tight to the arms of the seat. I was so frightened. I did not know what he might do next." "What _did_ he do?" "He was very quiet; it seemed a long time; then he said 'I beg your pardon;' and after that he did not speak again, and he jumped out as soon as we reached London." She referred to this as one of the most painful adventures of her life, and said she passed through an agony of apprehension and suspense until the train arrived at the terminus. This journey took from her all desire to travel alone, and she made no further experiment in that direction. The success of her efforts on behalf of the blind began now to be spread abroad, and institutions in many parts of England were disposed to consider the possibility of not only teaching but permanently employing the blind. Many inquiries were made of her, and she gave cordial encouragement to all who asked her advice. Levy was often sent to teach a trade, and to give information as to the best manner of carrying it on. One letter from him may be given as a sample of many, and of the fresh interests that were being opened out: 127 EUSTON ROAD, N.W., _26th October 1857_. DEAR MADAM--On Monday the 19th inst. I left home for Bath, where I continued till the following Thursday, when I went to Bristol, which I left on Saturday and returned home. My presence being required in London, I felt it prudent to defer my visit to Hereford, which I think you will approve when I have the pleasure of acquainting you with the details of the reasons which influenced me. The results of these visits are of the most satisfactory kind, being briefly the following: Commenced chair caning at the School Home, Bath, and suggested improvements in basket-making which the Committee approved, and the basket-makers showed every disposition to carry out; taught two pupils to write, that they might teach others to use the writing frame which they purchased; advised the introduction of a laundry and tuning pianos, and arranged for the sale of each other's manufactured goods. Before leaving Bath I received orders for nearly thirty brushes and brooms, and had the satisfaction of receiving from their Committee an offer to pay all my expenses, which the vote of £5 enabled me to decline. The master of the Bristol school promised to bring before his Committee the subject of employing men who are not connected with their institution. I have promised to send him some material, that he may commence brush-making there. Miss Stevens advances money to a workman which is regularly repaid; she complains much of the apathy of the people in Bristol. Capelin is succeeding; business is pressing and promising. Lady Byron's order will be forwarded this week; there is not any difference made to Mr. Moon's subscribers, but a grant might be obtained from the Bible Society, or the Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge; an arrangement with the shopkeeper would be advantageous. Hoping that you will excuse brevity, I am, dear madam, with gratitude and respect, WM. HANKS LEVY. _P.S._--We are all quite well. The blind throughout Great Britain were beginning to learn that they had a friend; and Bessie received numerous letters and appeals for help. The Rev. J. Burke, a blind clergyman, was elected in 1857 by the Mercers Company to a Lectureship at Huntingdon, and he writes to thank Bessie for efforts made on his behalf which had resulted in his appointment. The employment of women called forth a fresh burst of enthusiasm and gratitude from the blind. One of the first workwomen was Martha Trant, subsequently employed for more than twenty years. A copy of verses by "W. Heaton and Martha" probably belong to this early period. They were laid by with several similar testimonials, all yellow with age and worn by use, but carefully preserved as the "jewels" of the blind lady. William Heaton had been trained as a teacher for the blind, and, poor fellow! his gratitude was far in excess of his poetical power:-- Yes, I for one have felt the good, And hope to feel it still; For I a teacher soon shall be, Then do my best I will. I thank you for the favour that You have conferred on me, For thus admitting me to learn A teacher for to be. Martha's verses are upon the same level as William's:-- Oh that we had the power to speak The gratitude we feel, But words are vain, and oh how weak, The feelings to reveal. Dear lady, we most humbly hope, You kindly will accept This token of our gratitude, Our love and deep respect. And so on through several not very interesting pages. But to Bessie the value of these effusions was very great. They showed not only the gratitude but the happiness of her workpeople. They indicated a renewed life of the intellect and affections, and were received with encouraging sympathy. The composition of verses had given pleasure to herself from early childhood, and no doubt the form of expression chosen by the workpeople was influenced by her own example. The time had now come when she was to learn more of the effects of blindness upon the character than had hitherto been revealed to her. She had inaugurated work on behalf of a special class, a course always beset by difficulties, and she was open to the influence of the fanatics of that class, of those who had been embittered by suffering and had allowed themselves to drift to the conclusion that they were set in the midst of cruel enemies. There are some blind people who, when the full knowledge of all that their calamity entails is borne in upon them, have the courage, faith, and hope of a Christian to support them. They go forward in the certainty that as this cross has been appointed, strength will be given to bear it. There are others who resolve to live their life, to carry out their aims, to press forward along the lines laid down for them, and not allow a mere physical privation to reduce them to a condition below the high level to which they had resolved to attain. Christian faith animates and supports the former, physical and mental force will carry on the latter. In rare cases, Bessie's was one of them, the two are combined. But there is a third and perhaps a more numerous class--those who consider themselves as unjustly afflicted, and look upon mankind as enemies. Mankind is the majority, the blind are the minority. They speak of the attitude of "the majority," the neglect and selfishness of "the majority," the duty of "the majority." Their only outlook seems to be in restrictions to be applied to the more fortunate. They are the one-legged men who want to abolish foot races. They seek not so much to raise those that are cast down, as to abase those who stand erect. Bessie's knowledge of the blind would not have been complete if she had remained ignorant of this large class. She had deep sympathy with those who were embittered by sorrow and loss. She could feel for the man upon whom blindness entails sudden collapse; all his prospects shattered; himself and those dependent on him plunged into poverty. He sees himself set aside and made of no account. He forgets the blind whom he has known and neglected without any thought of injuring, and suspects every man who is indifferent to him of being a secret and cruel enemy. Numerous letters addressed or submitted to her show that the morbid bitterness of many a heart had been revealed to her, and that she had been urged, again and again, to lead a forlorn hope, and storm the heights that were held by the sighted. She knew what it was to hear her "humble work and low aims" spoken of with contempt, and to find that those whom she loved and honoured were objects of ridicule to the advanced thinkers amongst the blind. She could not work with men and women of such a type, but her sympathy gave her faultless intuitions with regard to them. Underneath a hard, aggressive exterior she felt the beating of a heart that was torn and bleeding. She could make allowance for wild words and angry exclamations, she could try to understand their meaning, but she was never dragged into the whirlpool of mere clamour, nor wrecked upon the hidden rocks of despair. A few extracts will show the dangers to which she was exposed, dangers not unfamiliar to many of those who read the story of her life. We are all of one opinion that the blind ought to be educated and restored to the privileges of social life and happiness from which they have been unjustly and selfishly excluded.... The present condition of my own private affairs and the desolate prospect of the future do not deter me from persevering, nor shall I desist so long as God gives me health of mind and one or two links by which I may communicate with the selfish and insensible Levites of the sighted world.... No permanent success will be gained till the education of the blind and their reception into social life be recognised and insisted on as a Christian duty; till the old and selfish indifference of animalism, that is almost everywhere manifested, be superseded by a more earnest and generous anxiety for their wellbeing, something more worthy of the spirit of humanity. Until this real Christian sympathy be awakened to take the place of that evasive and reluctant sham, so offensively paraded, misleading the benevolent and deeply injuring us, we shall not be able to make any progress. It is to arouse this sense of duty that I direct all my efforts. I see plainly it is the only road to success. We must first look to the enlightened, conscientious, and humane of every creed, trade, profession, and rank, who believe in and practise that Catholic duty of individual effort. Next those who by official position ought to lead the way; and here we come first to the minister of religion, who basely deserts his duty if he attempts to snub into silence the just clamours of those who are hourly sinking into the wretchedness of conscious degradation and social exile, merely because the well-meaning sighted do not wish to be disturbed in their enjoyment of all the blessings of the visible world and social existence, by these melancholy and distressing subjects. If the ministers of religion do but their duty, it must then be taken up by the Board of Education, and public opinion will then call on men of science, especially the medical profession, to direct their physiological inquiries to higher subjects too long neglected. If but one hundredth part of the mental energy that has been of late years directed to the constitution and habits of the insect world and of shellfish, had been devoted to an inquiry into the means of restoring to healthy action the imprisoned, stagnant, and deteriorating mind of the blind, something long before now would have been done more worthy of the name of philosophy.... As to gaining information from the teachers of schools, I do not expect you would be treated with much respect in our present degraded and unrecognised condition. With the exception of ---- and ----, I never met with any one who treated me with the respect due to an educated man; the manner in which I have been treated by others connected with such institutions has almost universally been that off-hand supercilious disrespect, with which an imaginary superior treats one of a lower grade, such as a beadle will show to a workhouse child.... The reckless and unprincipled disregard of truth to which the supposed-to-be helpless, dependent, and incapable blind are so generally exposed, has long taught me to keep copies of my letters.... I could fill pages with many an act and their consequences, which have contributed to my present ruined position, the miserable desolation of my mother's old age, and the blasted prospects of those who must sink and degenerate into isolated poverty, who would otherwise have formed a happy, self-supporting, united, and self-elevating family. This would never have happened had not those who know well where to find when convenient those sacred texts, "Thou shalt not lead the blind out of their way! Thou shalt not put a stumbling-block before the blind," taken a foul advantage of my supposed incapacity to protect my own interests, and had they not practically ignored the _equally sacred obligation_ that "the labourer is worthy of his hire." And when I have occasionally heard the Jesuits railed against for advancing the doctrine that the end sanctified the means, I have assured such, that those equally were to be dreaded who privately practised without openly advocating it. Bessie's nature was too healthy, and her own experience had been too favourable to allow her to believe in the organised opposition of society to the afflicted. But she was deeply moved by these cries out of the dark. They made her more than ever resolute to labour on behalf of the blind; they also showed her that she must stand aloof from plans and schemes which assume that the blind are struggling against their enemies, and that if they are successful, a time of subjection for the sighted will follow. In May 1858 one of the earliest entries in her Common Place Book refers to this subject, and treats of the position of the blind in a world specially adapted for the sighted. The sensible, clear view, calm and dispassionate, is characteristic of one trained to look on all sides of a subject, and to recognise that which is just for all. The child's love of what was fair comes in to help the woman to see that a majority has rights as well as a minority. She had to learn that, amongst the blind workers, she stood almost alone in this recognition. She was surrounded by men, some of whom attributed their misfortunes and failures not so much to the loss of sight as to malignity and oppression, whilst others believed and endeavoured to persuade those around them that blindness induces an intellectual superiority, characteristic of the blind man. Many of these were predisposed by early experience to suspect intentional persecution, but Bessie never shared their views; and an exalted notion of her own conduct, merits, and powers was impossible to her. L. [Levy] asked me the other day [she writes] if I had ever thought that it was an additional hindrance to the blind that so much in the way of communication between human beings was carried on by means of sight, that so much, in short, in the world was adapted to the sense of sight, and that only: for instance, that all signals are addressed to sight, and not to any of the other senses. He thought that hearing and smell could be made much more available than they are at present. I have often thought this; but of course it is only natural that the intercourse of the world should be adapted to the senses of the majority of its inhabitants; indeed, it would not be well, either for the world in general or for any minority under any peculiar circumstances that this rule should be departed from, only there ought to be the possibility of training this minority in such a way as that it might avail itself as far as possible of the means in use for general intercourse, and where this is impracticable, of substituting other means which shall answer the end in view. For example, the senses of hearing, touch, and smell might, I believe, be very much more accurately educated, and more fully developed than they are for the most part; but I have much to find out on this point. I can now, however, quite understand that systems of signals might be made very intelligible to the senses of hearing and smell. I remember Dufeau thinks that these senses might be much more developed; but he does not think that the principles upon which this should be done are yet sufficiently understood to establish a system of accurate training of them. From what I have seen, nothing does this so effectually as the necessity of using all the faculties in self-maintenance, though it is true sometimes that when this struggle is too hard the whole being seems so utterly depressed that all the faculties seem to be dormant. I wish I had time for more personal intercourse with the blind. I have, however, had more this year. One of the women at the Repository, Jane Jones, strikes me very much as having a good deal of spiritual insight, for I know not what else to call it. It is strange, for her other faculties seem to be below the average; perhaps, however, partly from the want of having been called out. Among the women there seems to be a great mutual kindliness. A. L., the most intelligent of them, is full of energy, and seems to have a strong desire for improvement in every way. She is only one and twenty, and more educated than the rest. She has much to contend with. I hope she may do much in teaching. I have found the only two men I have as yet taken to teach, wonderfully patient, and most willing to learn. One has a very good notion of spelling, and is evidently really fond of arithmetic. The other has scarcely any idea whatever of spelling, and it is very difficult to give him a notion of the sound of the letters; but as far as his mind has been opened to different subjects he has, I suspect, a good deal of information and seems full of interest, especially in accounts of travels. The history of Egypt, so far as he knows it, seems to have seized upon his imagination in a way at which I was quite astonished. He is an Irishman. CHAPTER XI REFLECTIONS AND SUGGESTIONS "Attempt the end, and never stand to doubt, Nothing's so hard but search will find it out." LOVELACE. The entries in Bessie's Common Place Book are not numerous, but they are very valuable. They are the result of careful study, of long-continued and anxious thought, and they are the most important original work left by her. They will be read by all who have endeavoured to help the blind with no less interest than by the blind themselves. _Education of the Blind._ In the preface to a poem entitled Genius of the Blind, by E. H. White, a blind man, he speaks of the great amount of labour and money which have been spent in attempts to educate the blind; of the comparatively small result, and of the bad effects of bringing up the blind in asylums, and thus estranging them from their families. It seems to me, however, that some such plan is necessary for those who cannot be educated at home; though perhaps in the case of pupils whose homes are in the town in which the institution is situated, the evil complained of might in a measure be remedied by their being admitted as day scholars, as I once remember Mr. Bird suggesting. But even here in London and other large towns, distance might be a great difficulty; and for those pupils not residing in the town itself, I see nothing to prevent this evil except holidays, and perhaps in many cases even this might not be practicable. There is also this to be said, that among the poor it is by no means the blind only who become estranged from their homes: I think this may be said of the majority with more or less truth; and it has often struck me that in all the different plans for improving the condition of the people, this very evil is too little thought of and guarded against. Indeed, I think that in all classes this is hardly recognised to be as great an evil as I believe it really to be. No doubt it was always intended that families should separate and disperse; but much more might be done than is done, to keep the home affections fresh and living, in the hearts of their members. Certainly the blind have, if anything, greater need of receiving and exercising the social affections than others. And here I would lay particular stress on the necessity of their exercising those affections towards others, as I am sure that the necessity of their being the objects of affection is often too exclusively dwelt upon, and that sufficient opportunity for showing their gratitude towards their fellow-creatures is not afforded them. I believe this to be the cause of much apathy or irritability, as the case may be, among them. One remedy for this result of the school system would be the multiplying of schools; as then a greater number of the blind would have opportunities of attending as day scholars. From all I can learn from others, and from the little I have seen myself, I believe there is one great evil at the root of the system of education in blind schools, which is, that each institution wishes to take rank as the first in importance, and is therefore more bent on making such an appearance before the public as will secure its own reputation, than upon practically benefiting the pupils, so far as lies in its power. This is one reason of the pupils being taught to make things for sale, which do not really help their progress in their trade, but which please and attract visitors, and are on that account often purchased, though in themselves utterly useless. Indeed I have heard it remarked what very useless things are made in blind asylums, and in other charitable institutions. Anderson says that one prominent feature in institutions for the blind is, the desire to carry forward the pupil at any sacrifice, to accomplish such pieces of work as may call forth the mere surprise of the passing visitor. If this is bad in an asylum where it is very little practised, it is far worse in a school. The time of a pupil ought to be considered most sacred, and as much as possible appropriated to the acquirement of that which he will be able to perform and find a ready sale for, on his leaving the school. There is, however, one thing to be urged in excuse of this practice in blind schools, viz., that the funds of most of them are not equal to their expenses, without the aid of the sale of the pupils' work. I believe that every such school, in order to be efficient, ought not to derive benefit from the work of the pupils; as when this is the case, the learners are often hurried over the different steps of their trade without due care being taken that they should each be able to take such steps securely when entirely unassisted. Thus on leaving the school the blind man often finds himself at fault when left to his own resources in practising the trade of which he was believed to be the master, in the acquiring of which much time, labour, and money have been spent, and from which far greater benefit might have been derived had it not been for the root-evil which has been mentioned. The aim of every school for the blind should be to fit them to fill their station in the world, be it what it may, as Christian men and women, and therefore to earn their own living, when this is necessary, as in far the majority of cases it is. I hope and trust that one day the whole school system will be improved. I know that Liverpool, which led the way in England, started with the best possible aims and intentions; although it has now greatly degenerated. Indeed, I believe all the first institutions to have been good, though the scope of many is, I suspect, very narrow. But it strikes me that all fall more or less below their first intentions, not only in their practice but even in their theory, and this I believe partly unconsciously. I do not see why it should be so, but I am afraid this is but too true. However, I can't help thinking that the rendering of such institutions independent of any gain from the labour of the pupils would go far towards improvement. Much might be done in schools to prevent the blind from being isolated, by giving them an interest in the subjects of the day. For instance, in the Bristol School, a newspaper is read to them. The older pupils should have opportunities for discussion not only with each other, but with visitors and friends. For instance, there might be an inexpensive entertainment once a week, or at some such stated time, for the purpose. I should think also lectures at Mechanics Institutes might be attended with advantage, as these are never given till the evening; and means such as these would open and enlarge the minds of the pupils, and would all tend to foster in them the sense of membership with the community at large. It should always be borne in mind that there is much in the condition of blindness, and indeed in any other exceptional state, to smother and weaken this feeling; and if not counteracted almost entirely to destroy it. This is the tendency of the gathering together of the blind into asylums as adults; and I am sorry to find from what I have read to-day that this is being increasingly done on the Continent. Many institutions there, seem to be rich in the different inventions for the blind; but as far as I can see, all seem to derive more or less profit from the manual labour of the pupils. It has this moment occurred to me that the right use of this labour would be to realise thereby a fund which should be spent in some way for the benefit of each pupil when he or she should leave the institution; or, in cases where it should be deemed advisable, it should be made over to the pupil to be used at his or her own discretion. Perhaps it would be well always to allow the pupils to appropriate a certain portion of their earnings; this would teach them the value of money, and would educate them in the management of it. No doubt the answer to these suggestions would be, want of funds. I should reply that much more real good would be done by lessening the number of pupils, so as to be able to effect it in proportion to the funds at command. I do believe such a system would go far towards giving the blind workmen a better start in the race for a livelihood than institutions have hitherto shown themselves able to give. The importance of systematically training and developing the remaining senses of their pupils cannot be too strongly impressed on those who educate the blind. I am delighted to find that Monsieur K., the blind director of the institution at Breslau, has succeeded in obtaining permission for his pupils to _feel_ the specimens of natural history contained in the Museum of that city. How glad I should be to hear of such permission being given in England. I think, as I have heard Mr. D. Littledale, a blind gentleman, say, that in schools there ought to be classes formed for the special object of exercising the touch. He himself has begun to form a Museum of objects with this view for the York School. But here I must say that I think the education of the blind will never attain the perfection of which I believe it is capable, unless teachers are specially trained for the work, and also unless at least a proportion of these are themselves blind. Among the blind I think individuals would be found capable of commencing and carrying on such training schools; then of course each fresh teacher so trained might be able either to superintend another school, or to carry on in a blind school something of the pupil-teacher system now adopted for ordinary schoolmasters and mistresses. In every country there ought to be at least one normal school where teachers for the blind may be trained. A simple way of effecting this would be for the Government to allow to one establishment, which should first be ascertained to be a superior one in its management and results, such an annual grant of money as should enable it to retain several young men as assistant-teachers, who would be ready to supply vacancies, and to take charge of newly-established institutions. This kind of assistance would be, perhaps, the most valuable encouragement which a Government could give. It would ensure the training of persons to continue and perfect an art which has been kept in a state of infancy from the want of such a provision. The blind may be divided into two classes--those so born and those who become so from disease or accident; the latter is by far the most numerous class. Bowen says he believes there is no authentic instance of any one born blind being restored to sight by human means. I should rather doubt this, as I have been told that congenital cataract can be removed if the operation takes place early enough, viz. at the age of one or two years. The same author says it is believed that blindness in after life might often be prevented were the organisation of the eye more thoroughly understood by physicians. He then gives some facts to show the extent to which blindness prevails. Bowen says the first accounts which we have of schools for the blind are those in Japan. They existed some years before that in Paris, thought to be the first in Europe, though there is a doubt between it and the school at Amsterdam. In Japan the instruction appears to be oral. The blind seem to have fulfilled the office of historians to their nation, and to have formed no small proportion of the priesthood. The first regular system of embossed printing in Europe was the invention of Valentin Haüy, the founder of the Paris institution. Many alphabets have since been invented, of which I will not speak now, as this subject should be treated separately, but will only say that the education of the blind will receive an immense impulse when the improvement of which I believe embossed printing to be capable, is effected. There are many contrivances for writing; and here also I am not sure that all which is necessary is yet obtained, though much towards it has certainly been done. But in this case also, any increase of speed would be an immense help. The blind have different wants in writing to those who see. They want to write easily and rapidly, and they want to commit their own thoughts or those of others to paper, or, in short, anything they wish to keep in a tangible form, by means of some rapid and easy process. If possible they should have the power of making notes, and referring to them when made, with as much facility as the sighted. This at least ought to be the object aimed at. Perhaps it might be impossible fully to realise this idea, but I think very much might be done towards it. Even now Braille's embossed system goes far towards this, but I shall hope one day to treat of both reading and writing as distinct subjects. I will therefore only now say that every improvement and facility given to the blind in these two branches will do a great deal towards bringing their education to perfection. I have said given to the blind, but I would rather say every improvement and facility invented and contrived by the blind, as I believe in truth they must be their own helpers and deliverers, at least to a great extent. Before leaving this subject, I will add that I believe the power of writing in some tangible form, with the greatest possible ease and rapidity, to be of the highest importance to the blind; and with this view I should like to see Braille's system in use in all our schools. This system was the invention of a blind man, and is, I believe, the best that has yet been contrived. I am sure the mind of many a blind person remains far below the degree of cultivation and maturity to which it might attain, simply from the want of being able to emboss its thoughts upon paper. Some one, I know not who, says: use the pen to prevent the mind from staggering about; and this help should certainly be placed by some means or other within the reach of the blind generally. CHAPTER XII HER DIARY "The older we grow, the more we understand our own lives and histories, the more we shall see that the spirit of wisdom is the spirit of love, that the true way to gain influence over our fellow-men is to have charity towards them."--KINGSLEY. In addition to the Common Place Book, which contains the result of many years of thought and investigation, Bessie kept during 1858 a diary. This shows not only her thoughts but her deeds. Her whole life was now engrossed by her work for the blind. French, Italian, German, the harp, the guitar, were all laid aside. Friends were made no longer for herself but for the blind. She was eagerly occupied with experiments in trade, with instruction, with visits to the workshop and the homes of her people, with letters and appeals, and with efforts to make known not only what was being attempted, but the need there was that more should be done. She studied the census of 1851, and upon it based her statements as to the number of the blind throughout Great Britain and their condition. She learned that a large proportion of the number lose their sight after having reached the age at which they are admissible to the existing institutions. She saw, therefore, that she must add to her scheme for employment that of the instruction of adults in trades by which they could earn a living. She did not believe in doles, pensions, and so-called "Homes." She believed in work, in a trade, a handicraft, the possibility of earning one's own living, as the means of restoring blind men and women to their place in human society. There is nothing that she records in the diary with more satisfaction than the progress made by adult pupils. The instruction and employment of women was also succeeding beyond her expectation, and the wages they earned approximated more nearly to the wages of sighted women than had been expected. But even her remarks on this proficiency of the women show her usual fair and broad view. She says: There are seven men and six women pupils. The best workwoman can earn seven shillings a week, working eight hours a day. Upon this she contrives to support herself and a little sister. A sighted brushmaker employing a hundred workwomen states that she must be a very good workwoman who can earn six shillings a week at eight hours a day. The women he employs often work twelve or fourteen hours to increase their earnings. This is great drudgery. It seems as if brush drawing was more a matter of touch than of sight. If we can only discover them, it may be that several trades will answer for the blind on this very account. I think at present that this will apply even more to women than to men. The male pupils work well and make great progress, but their earnings, I think, would not bear the same proportion to those of sighted workmen as do those of the women. Still, as their work includes more than one branch, this may be a mistake, and at all events it must take them longer to become thoroughly good workmen, as they have more to acquire. On 6th May 1858 she writes in the diary: Joined for the first time in the daily prayer and reading at the Repository [the Association was known by this name]. This was what I had often wished to do. Saw Mr. Dale, asked for his schoolroom for a lecture for the benefit of the Association; he gave leave. Told him what F. B. was doing about the _Times_. Took four [blind persons] for reading, and think they are getting on. Saw Mr. Bourke for the first time; had a long talk with him; think he will be more active than he has been in seeking out the blind and looking into their condition. Saw Levy Esqre. [not the manager], who showed me specimens of turning done by Mestre at Lausanne, who is blind, deaf, and dumb. Got Mr. Levy to promise to attend the meeting, on the 18th. Talked with Levy [manager] about the meeting. Corkcutting to be introduced before Walker's life-belt is made. Talked about furnishing carpenter as the next trade taught, also about embossed printing; think much might be done towards improving it.... _8th May._--Looked over, corrected, and altered proof of report. Dictated a note to Levy about it. Wrote to Mr. Cureton, asking if he could lend his church for Dr. Thompson to preach in, in July, if not earlier. Wrote to Mrs. Jones asking about Dr. Thorpe's chapel, also to Mr. Eyre, asking him to preach at Marylebone Church. Sent papers to both clergymen. Received from Mrs. Sithborp her guinea subscription. Entered letters of yesterday and to-day. Dictated some notes and thoughts for the Common Place Book. It is a great pleasure to get some of these thoughts actually expressed. It gives them, as it were, a shape and a body, besides, I can never do what I wish without this, as I should never have the necessary materials. Saw Mary Haines. Wrote to Miss Repton.... Read a letter in two systems. This allusion to "what she wishes" refers to her desire to write a book upon the condition of the blind. She had this object before her for many years, and prepared for it by accumulating statistics and information from every available source. She read the lives of blind men, books written by blind men, took copious notes, or had them taken for her, sometimes by her younger brother, sometimes by a sister. She "thought out" every statement made, every suggestion offered, with regard to the blind. Her book would have been singularly valuable. Her sound judgment, her power of looking at all sides of a question, would have saved her from the danger of forgetting that, although there are 30,000 blind in the United Kingdom, there are some millions who have the gift of sight. The book was never written, but her preparation for it made her a storehouse of information and of wise and tender thought, not only for the blind, but for all those who are afflicted and suffering. 17th May.... Saw Sir W. Reid, heard from him that a brush, with the Repository stamp, is left in the Museum at Malta; was very glad of this. Received from him £5. Heard he had seen Lord Cranbourne, and that Lord C. thought I was wrong in using and teaching T. M. L. system. I talked to Sir W. Reid of the different systems, also asked him for the names of books upon the blind mentioned to him by Lord C. Wrote to Lady Mayne to ask if she could get St. Michael's, Pimlico, lent. Afternoon.--Went to Miss ----. Very little done there for the Association. Saw Dr. Jelf there; heard he would come to the meeting next day. The list of letters written and embossed and duly recorded in the Journal will be omitted. They are the inevitable drudgery of such a work as she was now engaged in. Explanations, petitions, acknowledgments, inquiries, information, requests for the loan of pulpits from which the claims of the Association may be urged, of schoolrooms in which meetings can be held, all these things were part of her daily work. The sisters tell that Bessie could at this time emboss a letter upon her Foucault frame and dictate two others at the same time; always without mistake or omission. On the 18th May 1858 the Annual Association Meeting was held, and the First Annual Report presented. We learn from the balance-sheet that the receipts during this, the first year of accurate and formal management, had been £1784:3:11. Of this, subscriptions and donations amounted to £648 1 2 Balance in hand 25th April 1857 215 9 3 Sale of goods, etc. 920 13 6 ----------- £1784 3 11 There was a balance in hand at the end of the year of £118:15:1. The number of blind men and women who had been employed during the year at the Institution, or in their own homes, was forty-three. The sum required for payment of rent, officials, teachers, and supplementary wages to the blind, amounted to £744:10:4. The annual subscription paid by Bessie was at this time £75, and in addition there is a donation of £10 for broom-making, and £2 for advertising. But the sum that appears in the subscription list is only the smallest part of that which she devoted to the service of the blind. Her private charity amongst them was at all times far-reaching and unstinted. She had many pensioners in London, and pleasant stories of them abound. There was a poor blind woman called Mary H., elderly and very lonely, whose wonderful trust and patience called forth Bessie's admiration. She ultimately procured the placing of Mary's name on the list of recipients of the Queen's Gate Money, she taught her to read, and allowed her monthly a certain quantity of tea and sugar. One day when she came for her reading lesson Mary said: "Oh, miss, I had such a strange dream last night!" "Well, Mary, what was it?" "Why, miss, I dreamt you were dead." "Did you, Mary? and what did you think about it?" "The first thing I thought, miss, was, what shall I do for my tea and sugar!" The honesty and simplicity of this answer delighted Bessie, and she frequently spoke of Mary's dream. The saying of another pupil also pleased her. She taught a blind boy at Chichester to read, and when he came for his lessons the boy used to ask innumerable questions. One day she remarked upon this, and he frankly exclaimed: "Oh yes, marm, so I do, I always likes to know up to the top brick of the chimney." Brush-making, first introduced by Bessie and taught by Farrow, had proved a successful and remunerative occupation for the blind. Encouraged by this success, the making of bass brooms was now added to the work carried on in the Euston Road. The coarse fibre used for this purpose has to be dipped in boiling pitch, and then inserted and fixed into holes in the wooden back of the broom. By an ingenious contrivance of the teacher, the hand of the blind man follows a little bridge across the boiling pitch, reaches a guide, at which he stops and dips his bristles into the shallow pan. He then withdraws his hand along the same bridge, kneads the pitch, and fixes the fibre in its hole. Several men sit round a table, and are thus enabled to work without risk of a burn at a trade which requires no skill. The blind carpenter Farrow, who had made the fittings for the Holborn cellar, had been from that time permanently employed in the Institution. In 1858 he was the teacher of thirteen blind men and women who were learning a trade. Levy had visited Norwich and Bath during the year 1858. In the latter city a Blind Home was formed for the employment of women instructed in the Bath Blind School. This was done in consequence of a Report of Bessie's institution which had been sent to the Committee at Bath. The School for the Indigent Blind, St. George's Fields, Southwark, had also opened departments for instructing and employing the adult blind, but we have no sheaf of old letters to give the history of this further development. The Committee of the Association might well look back with pleasure, and forward with hope. They well knew on whom the success of the work mainly depended; and in spite of Bessie's objection to the introduction of her name, the following paragraph closes the Annual Report issued in May 1858: Your Committee feel that their report would be very imperfect if they did not allude to the great services which have been rendered to this society, during the last year, by Miss Gilbert, the foundress of the Association. Whenever pecuniary embarrassment has threatened the efficiency of the Institution, her active zeal has soon replenished the funds; and when the Association has been unable to relieve the most distressing cases that have been pressed on their notice, the sufferers have found her ever ready to afford them timely help; and that, too, in a way which has shown such sympathising interest in their privations, as well as so much consideration for their feelings, that the value of the aid thus afforded can be fully appreciated only by those who have received it. CHAPTER XIII THE FEAR OF GOD AND NO OTHER "Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might." Bessie's early education and happy home life counted for much in her work on behalf of the blind. She knew the advantage of being thrown on her own resources, of learning the ways of a house and the paths of a garden. She knew also that the happiness of the blind depends chiefly on companionship. "A deaf person," she used to say, "is very cheerful alone, much more cheerful than in society. It is social life that brings out his privation. But a blind man in a room alone is indeed solitary, and you see him at his best in society. It is social life which diminishes his disabilities." Whilst she acquiesced, therefore, in Levy's wish that the work of the Institution should be exclusively carried on by blind persons, she was anxious that they should not be set apart and kept apart from other workmen. Her diary for 1858 contains the following passage: Spoke to Levy about the workpeople in the Repository not having intercourse enough with those who see, and thought of the possibility of their belonging to Mr. Maurice's Working Men's College; I think that might be just the thing. L. asked what I thought about their attending a Bible Class by any of Mr. Dale's curates. I said I should like it, provided the mistake was not made of talking to them upon religion as if it must be a sort of last resource to the blind, to make up for the want of other things. L. understood what I meant, and said he was glad I had mentioned it. Any display of the blind with the object of calling attention to their affliction, and extorting money on account of it, was extremely painful to Bessie. She had too much reverence and tenderness for her fellow-sufferers to make a show of them, and she would not accept help if it involved any lowering of the tone she hoped to establish in the workshop. Blind men and women were to be taught that they could do an honest day's work and earn their own living. An entry in the diary shows that she had to educate more than her workpeople before her views were adopted. L. spoke to me about a suggestion for employing blind beggars to carry boards to advertise the Association. Told him I strongly objected, and why. The workpeople also frequently caused her anxiety. Felt and compared brushes from W. with those made at Repository. Our make is the best. L. told me things were rather uncomfortable between two of the women. I saw them each separately, and think and hope they will go on better, but the whole affair made L. think how necessary what I have often spoken to him about would be in future; namely, the possibility of arranging for board and lodging for learners not having means of subsistence.... Talked to L. about visiting the workmen at their own homes. He told me he thought I should have special advantages for so doing, and specially in speaking to them on spiritual matters.... Spoke about baskets not being made to measure. When good workmen do not make baskets according to order, something is to be taken off the price.... Went to Repository to try and find out what Susan M. had better do towards earning her living; am not sure about it, but so far as I can tell, don't think she would have musical talent enough to make her living by that; however, she has hardly learnt two years, so I think one can hardly judge.... Spoke to Mrs. L. about ventilator for Committee room, and about using disinfecting fluid in the workrooms on Sunday.... Mrs. H. gave me a towel made in a loom without steam, as a specimen of the linen proposed to be woven by Association workpeople. She also talked about a home for the blind without friends, where they should pay and, as I suggested, be entirely free to leave at any time. She thought perhaps the weaving might be carried on in some such place at a little distance from London.... Dictated note to Mrs. L. to ask about the state of health in the homes of the workmen, and to get their exact addresses. Spoke to mamma about visiting them. We may be sure that there would be some anxiety on the part of her parents as to these visits to the homes of the workmen, but her wishes prevailed, and an entry dated 19th June 1858 states: Greatest part of the day occupied in visiting the workmen at their own homes. Was very glad to do it, but sorry not to visit more of them. Only went to four--Hounslow, Hemmings, Barrett, and Symonds. Found the latter not so well off as I expected. He has not had much work besides Association work. Altogether what I saw confirmed me very much in the belief that such an Association as ours is very greatly needed.... Spoke to L. [Levy] purposely a little of what I had to give up for the work, only with a view of showing him that one often thought one would rather be doing other things, and of making him see that he was to some extent right in saying that I had made sacrifices. This was not at all with the view of making him suppose that I thought much of them, but in order to show him how true it is that one feels the work to be a sacred duty, for which, as for all other duties, sacrifices must be made. He is thoroughly imbued with this feeling, but I wish to keep it constantly both before him and myself, as I believe it is only thus that we can either of us work as God would have us work, and we both believe that He has made us His instruments for a special work for the blind.... Wrote to the Dean of Westminster (the very Rev. R. C. Trench, who was about to preach for the Association in Mr. Llewelyn Davies' church) to describe the different papers I sent, and telling him I thought that in what had been done for the blind, those who saw had perhaps committed the mistake of making the blind feel how much they needed their aid, rather than how far they might become independent of it.... Gave £5 of my own on Capelin's account, but find Capelin has been earning more than I expected towards his maintenance, so that what I owed was not very much.... Talked with L. about Newman, and heard a very sad letter from him, written from the Union where he now is. Settled that the resolution as to his being employed should be acted upon, but I am sorry he is a bad workman, as this will make the thing very difficult.... Told L. we ought to bring the Association into such a position that it should be able to bear the loss from bad work while a man is improving. Found, as I expected, that expense of management is about £300 a year, and think subscriptions now cover this entirely or very nearly.... Whilst I was at the Repository Herr Hirzel, master of the institution at Lausanne, came; I was anxious to get all possible information as to relief printing. He, Levy, and I, went through the merits of many of the different systems, which took a long time. Relief printing for the blind is a subject beset with difficulty. In every country where books are embossed for the blind there are two or three different alphabets. There are systems in which dots and lines and abbreviations take the place of letters; and there are systems where the alphabet is enlarged and modified to suit the requirements of a person who is going to read with fingers instead of eyes. The number of books printed in relief is very small; and the result of using several systems is that a blind reader finds that four out of five of the very small number embossed are unintelligible. He can read Moon or Lucas or Braille, but Frere and Howe and Alston and a host of others he cannot decipher. Bessie spent much time upon the subject of relief printing, and could read nearly everything printed for the blind. She thought that Braille's was in itself the best system, but that Moon's was the only one really useful to adults, more especially to those whose hands have been hardened by labour. All except Moon's system must be acquired by the young and sensitive fingers of a child. Bessie would have liked to see the systems narrowed down to two, if not to one; but she found, as many others have done, that it was impossible to obtain unanimity on this point, as too many interests are involved in it. She made no progress in the matter, and put it on one side. On the 7th of July the diary tells us she was at the Repository giving advice to "Martha." Talked much to Martha about her proposed marriage. Told her to ask if her intended husband would wish to go to Mr. Dixon on account of his near sight, saying that if this stood in the way of his getting something to do, and Mr. Dixon thought spectacles would help, he should have them.... L. sent me papa's motto, "The fear of God and no other." I had asked him to have it printed for the boarding-house. In August of this year Bessie paid a visit to Miss Bathurst, who with her mother, Lady Caroline Bathurst, was then living at Stanmore. She met there Lady Elizabeth Waldegrave and Miss Butler. A friendship formed at that time with Miss Butler continued to the end of her life. She records the meeting in her diary, adding, "talked about the Association." Perhaps we should have been more surprised if she could have recorded that she talked about anything else. On the 10th of August she left London for Chichester. The morning was spent in making arrangements for the Association. L. came. I told him to tell Hounslow that he was only to repay £3 out of the £6:10s. for the quarter's rent. Arranged to have a large applicant's book with full details. Found that all concerned were very much pleased with the boarding-house. Gave L. something for relief in special cases. Told him to see about getting several of Braille's small writing frames made, if he found the one I had sent to be successful. Impressed upon L. to take on more workpeople the very moment the sales would allow it. Talked to him of my plan for raising money to buy a West-end house, made him feel he must devote himself more than ever to the work, not that he is unwilling. L. told me that the amount of goods bought in the past year had been too great, but that bass-broom and cocoa-mat making would do much towards keeping down this item. The "purchase of goods" here referred to was always a sore point with Bessie. In order to fulfil the order of a customer, articles not made by the blind had often to be procured. The manager was on the horns of a dilemma. Custom was lost when an order was sent home incomplete, whilst, on the other hand, the Lady President wished nothing, or as little as possible, to be sold which was not the work of the blind. This difficulty, however, increased rather than diminished, and if there is any way of avoiding it, that way has not yet been discovered. During the summer at Chichester, Bessie seems to have suffered much from exhaustion and fatigue, entries of "unavoidably nothing done" are frequent, as well as reports of "toothache." The house in Euston Road was small and inconvenient, additional space was urgently required, and when it was found that there were empty rooms in an adjacent house they were at once secured. "Heard from L. that four rooms next door are engaged for £16 a year, and as the room where the materials were kept cost £5:4s., the extra expense will only be £10:16s." A peaceful summer at Chichester brought time to spare for old pursuits. She had the garden with its birds and flowers, and her music and poetry as a solace after the grind of Association work. "S. finished writing from my playing," she records, "a song from the _Saint's Tragedy_, which I hope I may get published for the good of the Association; it was begun yesterday." She had written to Mr. Kingsley for permission to set Elizabeth's "Chapel Song" to her own music, and received an assurance that he would be very glad if any words of his could be useful to her, or any work of hers. In September she was again in London for a Committee meeting, and there were the usual applications to consider, and the reading and talking with the workpeople. She inspected the new rooms and the boarding-house, and talked over the possibility of Levy's going to France upon business. After her return to Chichester and for many months we find almost daily entries "Embossed much French and dictated a great deal for L." During this summer she was oppressed by the consciousness that the mental training of the blind had not taken its due place in her scheme. She wanted to find something that would afford instruction and at the same time recreation for the poor, something to awaken and enlarge their interest in the external world. She found that the perceptive faculties which take the place of sight suffer from a want of due cultivation, and she wished to remedy this by enabling the blind to obtain information about natural objects. Something, she thought, might be done by a development of the sense of touch, and by arranging a Natural History Museum in such a manner that every specimen could be handled. In connection with the Museum, she proposed to form a department for the exhibition of inventions in aid of the blind. These were to be arranged without reference to the "sighted," and in such a manner that the blind could easily examine and compare them. An exhibition of this kind was opened in Paris in October 1886, but the idea originated in the fertile brain of Bessie Gilbert. Meanwhile the Museum for her poor was the first thing to be started, and she prepared for it by visiting the Chichester Museum. In September we read: "Went to Museum to ask the cost of stuffing birds and about collections of eggs, and the order of arranging birds. Settled with E. that she should ask Mr. ---- to shoot some birds, and with Mr. H. that he should tell Smith the bird stuffer to come to me next Wednesday." Mr. ---- seems to have had only moderate success with his gun, as a later entry records, "Received two birds from Mr. ----." There are frequent accounts of "looking over eggs," "arranging glass case for the stuffed birds, and talking about the Museum to all who could give advice or make useful suggestions." Early in this year a large oil painting of blind men and women at work round a table in the Euston Road was painted by Mr. Hubbard. An engraving taken from the picture, with an account of the institution, was inserted in the _Illustrated News_ of 24th April 1858, and in May the picture was purchased "by subscription" for the sum of ten guineas, and fixed outside the shop, where for many years it attracted the notice of passers-by. It was engraved for the use of the Institution, and may still be seen on the Annual Report, Price Lists, etc., whilst the original painting hangs in the Berners Street Committee Room. The account given by the _Illustrated News_ called attention to Bessie's work. It was followed by letters in _The Times_, _Daily News_, and other journals, and by an article in _Household Words_, believed to be by Charles Dickens, entitled "At Work in the Dark." Many subscriptions, donations, and promises of help were received in consequence of these notices in the Press. Mr. Walker, who invented a life-belt, offered the benefit of its manufacture to the Association, and a new trade, corkcutting, was set on foot. In the course of the year the "Association of Blind Musicians" applied, through Mr. Swanson, blind organist of Blackheath Park Church, to be admitted to union with Bessie's influential society. She was warmly interested in the appeal, and willing to grant such help, pecuniary and other, as the greater Association could render to the less. The aim of Mr. Levy, Mr. James Lea Summers, Mr. Swanson, and other blind musicians was to give a thorough musical training to, and to obtain employment as organists and teachers for, blind men with a talent for music. The petition was courteously received, and after much discussion by the Committee and consideration by Bessie, the prayer for union, but without pecuniary aid, was granted. The Musical Association, however, had neither sufficient funds nor enough influence for the undertaking. But the promotors acted as pioneers, and a few years later Bessie saw that the efforts of Dr. Campbell and the establishment of the Normal College for the Blind at Norwood, would satisfactorily accomplish all that the Blind Musicians had attempted. The trades hitherto taught to women had been leather and bead work, and the making of nosebags for horses. These were found to be unremunerative, and it was necessary to substitute others for them. There was at that time a great demand for fine baskets imported from France, and it occurred to Bessie that if they could procure the blocks upon which these baskets were made and the tools used, she might learn the art of basket-making and teach the workwomen. But there was a difficulty in the way. The manufacture of these baskets was a monopoly, and the firm to which they were consigned would give no information as to the locality whence they came. Some one must go to France and find out. Who could go except Levy! It was to prepare him for this journey that for more than a year Bessie had been at every spare moment "embossing French words for L.," as the diary informs us, or dictating a vocabulary. In the autumn of 1858 he and his wife set out on their journey of discovery. Bessie had applied for a grant in aid of Levy's expenses, but the Committee did not accede to her request, so that funds were provided from her private purse. The blind man and his wife took the wrong train at Calais, and for some time did not discover their mistake. However, they retraced their steps, and after many adventures learnt that the baskets arrived in large crates at Calais from the north of France, and were shipped for England. No one knew exactly whence they came. Levy commenced a search which threatened to be fruitless, when one day at St. Quentin he met a _comis-voyageur_, who told him that the village in which these baskets were made was Oigny, about eight miles distant. On the following day Levy and his wife stood at the door of the very man who supplied baskets to the Institution, and found that their appearance caused surprise and alarm. But when Levy explained the object of his visit he met with a cordial reception. The manufacturer showed and allowed him to purchase blocks and tools; taught him the ingenious contrivance by which the blocks could be taken to pieces and removed when the baskets were completed, and gave him all the information in his power as to the method and cost of production. He also took him to the village where the workpeople lived; but it is a cider-growing country, and many were away at the apple harvest. Levy and his wife were kindly received in the cottages, and he wrote to Miss Gilbert that a canary was singing in every house, and that many of the villagers grew their own osiers. The result of this journey was very encouraging, although Bessie did not learn the trade or become a teacher of basket making. She had other work to do. Levy himself taught the blind women, and says that he found them apt pupils. When Bessie visited London in November she reports that she "felt A. at the basket work, and was shown the use of all the tools and the blocks. The English ones are made much better than the French, but after French patterns. Found from all I saw and heard that a great advance has been made, but there are seventy-six more applicants for work. Saw and talked to H. to encourage him." Before long the women are reported to be making fine baskets which please customers, and are bought in preference to the French. They had plenty of employment in executing orders, until, unfortunately for them, fine baskets went out of fashion, and bags came in. For some time after his visit to France, Levy wrote and printed his name Lévy. The autumn brought a new scheme. Collecting boxes were to be fixed in different parts of London, and application was made to hotels and other places of resort to receive the boxes, together with specimen cases of the work of the blind. Bessie had, as usual, a busy time with her letters, but she did not forget the Museum. When she went to town in November she talked to the workpeople about it, and they liked the idea. She had taken "two or three things from the garden" to show them; and in December, when she went to town for the "women's tea-party," she "took the crocodile," and "the women were delighted with it." She wrote a letter at this time for publication, pleading for the education of blind children in the ordinary schools for the poor. She was also in correspondence with Mrs. Hooper, who was preparing a magazine article on the work of the blind. She records that she urged Mrs. Hooper to attach "more importance to donations and subscriptions, to speak of the Museum, and to tell the educated blind that they ought to assist the blind poor to help themselves." Through a friend she also applied for the custom of Cheltenham College for Ladies. Bessie had decided to give £2000 to the Association as an endowment fund. The conditions of her gift were brought before the Committee, discussed, and accepted. The money was invested in the names of three trustees, and the Association seemed now to stand upon a sure footing. These conditions will be read with interest. CONDITIONS. 1. As long as those employed and taught by the Association, or receiving any benefit whatsoever therefrom, shall be admitted by the decision of the Committee, or by some one deputed by themselves, and not by the votes of the subscribers. 2. As long as blindness shall not disqualify any person from holding the office of Superintendent, Traveller, or Porter. 3. As long as it is a fundamental rule of the Association that the immediate objects of this Association shall be to afford employment to those blind persons who for want of work have been compelled to solicit alms, or who may be likely to be tempted to do so; to cause those unacquainted with a trade to be instructed in some industrial art; and to introduce trades hitherto unpractised by the blind; also to support a circulating library consisting of books in various systems of relief printing, to the advantages of which the indigent blind shall be admitted free of charge, and others upon payment of the subscription required by the Committee; to collect and disseminate information relative to the physical, mental, moral, and religious condition of the blind; and to promote among individuals and institutions, seeking to ameliorate the condition of the blind, a friendly interchange of information calculated to advance the common cause among all classes of the blind. 4. As long as the Committee shall consist of both ladies and gentlemen. 5. As long as at least six blind men or women shall be supplied with work at their homes by the Association, each at a sum of not less than six shillings per week; and so long as at least three blind men and three blind women shall be receiving instruction at the cost of the Association. These conditions deserve the careful consideration of every one interested in the blind, and should be religiously observed in the Institution founded by Bessie Gilbert. Her work had now greatly increased; a large number of blind persons were regularly employed, and the public had responded to every appeal for funds. A meeting was held in May 1859, with the Bishop of London in the chair, and the time seemed to have come for that further information which Colonel Phipps had intimated might be sent to the Queen. In April 1859, therefore, a letter was written to Her Most Gracious Majesty, by her very dutiful and humble servant E. M. M. Gilbert, to which the following reply was received: BUCKINGHAM PALACE, _7th May 1859_. MADAM--In reply to your letter of the 29th April, I have now the pleasure to inform you that Her Majesty the Queen has been graciously pleased to grant her patronage to the Association for Promoting the General Welfare of the Blind, for which you have shown so much sympathetic interest and so large and liberal a benevolence.--I have the honour to be, madam, your obedient humble servant, C. B. PHIPPS. Miss Gilbert. Bessie returned very dutiful acknowledgments and grateful thanks to the Queen, who had for the second time granted her petition and rendered signal service to her cause. Henceforward, on the first page of annual reports, and on all bills and notices, appear the magical words-- Patroness. Her Most Gracious Majesty the Queen. They were doubtless, as Bessie believed them to be, a tower of strength to her, inspiring confidence, securing friends, bringing custom and money. Proud and happy too were the blind workmen as they sat round their little table, cautiously dipping fibre into the boiling pitch. They could reply to inquirers that orders had been received from Buckingham Palace, from Osborne, and from Windsor Castle, and that they were "making brooms for the Queen." CHAPTER XIV EVERYDAY LIFE "Ce que peut la vertu d'un homme ne se doit pas mesurer par ses efforts, mais par son ordinaire."--PASCAL. In January 1859 Bessie, with a younger sister, paid a ten days' visit to Fir Grove, Eversley, the home of her friend Miss Erskine. It was at this time that she became personally acquainted with Charles Kingsley. She heard him preach in his own church, and the sermon was one that she always referred to with gratitude as having helped and strengthened her.[7] Miss Erskine remembers that Bessie walked and talked with Mr. and Mrs. Kingsley, and that they learnt to love her dearly. They quickly recognised the brave and faithful nature of the blind lady. "When you have medicine to take you drink it all up," said Charles Kingsley.[8] Never was there a truer remark. She might, in the diary she was then keeping, have recorded many interesting incidents connected with that visit. But she merely makes a note of work done on behalf of the Association, and there is one solitary mention of Mr. Kingsley's name--"talked to Mr. Kingsley about the Museum." That she talked about the Association it is unnecessary to add, and as a proof of it we find in the spring that Mr. Kingsley asked the Rev. Llewelyn Davies either to preach or to lend his pulpit in aid of her work. On her return to Chichester the remainder of January was spent in writing letters to ask for anecdotes concerning the blind, and in obtaining material for her proposed book. An autograph letter soliciting patronage was written at this time to the blind King of Hanover. She tells how she first dictated, then copied it herself, and also wrote herself to enclose it to Miss Boyle, by whom it was to be forwarded. "Seems little enough," she adds, "but took a long time." With regard to her biographies, Levy writes as follows: "I think Mr. Taylor would lend any work he has; the best he has I think are all German. The translations which I have heard from them remind me of the efforts which have been made to discover the North-West Passage, you are continually boring through ice, and if perchance you do meet with a piece of clear water you are no sooner aware that it is such than you are hemmed in with ice again. "If you were to write and ask him to lend you any work on the biography of the blind it would do good, but all that Germany has produced for the blind is not worth spending much time upon." He proceeds to tell her of a meeting held at St. John's Wood, and of the feeling that seemed to prevail that the institution there for the blind must either adopt "our views" or else come to the ground; and how in consequence of this the title had been changed to "The London Society for teaching the blind to read and for teaching the Blind Industrial Arts." He ends his letter, "It seems truly miraculous that in so short a space of time so much should be done with the various institutions. There is St. John's Wood, St. George's, Manchester, Bristol, Exeter, York, and Bath of which we know." Bessie's friends heard of her proposed book on the blind with interest. Mr. Browne, the Rector of Pevensey, wrote in warm approval, and offered when in London to consult books for her at the British Museum. The late Colonel Fyers wrote from Dover Castle, enclosing an account of the life of a blind doctor, Rockliffe, of Ashley in Lincolnshire. Her brother Tom writes from Trinity College, sending notes on the life of the blind professor, Sanderson of Cambridge, who died in 1739. He speaks of a picture on the stairs of the library, of which he thinks she might make use. Her own note-book is filled with accounts of the lives of Holman, Gough, Huber, Laura Bridgman, and others. Many letters sent to her at this time have been preserved; one from a blind man, Elisha Bates, interested her greatly:-- ELISHA BATES. I am thirty-three years of age. I was born at Coburn near Richmond, Yorkshire. My parents were agricultural labourers. I was born quite blind. I was always fond of horses. I used as a little boy to drive the horses in Mr. Fryer's threshing machine. I began this about nine years of age. I went daily to the ploughing fields, and although so young I was allowed to drive the horses for the ploughman. I could very early find my way about the village and to the different fields of the farmers. Up to eleven years of age I went with the other boys of the village to seek birds' nests, and often found my way to and from the neighbouring villages. I always had an excellent memory for recollecting the turns in the road and the variations of the surface, by which I was guided. I never had a stick up to this time, and up to the present time I rarely use one. I went to the Liverpool Blind Institution at twelve years of age, and learnt to read in the characters for the blind, and was taught the trade of ropemaking. I was so good in finding my way at Liverpool that I used to take charge of an old man [Hewell Kennedy] in our walking excursions. He was lame, deaf, and blind, and I used to take him about three miles up the London Road to the Old Swan Inn. I never forget a road I have once travelled over. I have no difficulty in avoiding obstacles. I think I do so from the acuteness of my hearing; I listen attentively to my footfall, and when approaching any object which may intercept my progress, even a lamp-post, I can discover a slight difference in the sound. If I have any doubt I tread a little louder, so as to satisfy my ear. I never fail in making it out. The difference in the sound is difficult to describe; but if I am near a wall or any object in my path I feel the sound to be more confined and not to extend itself as in an open space. It comes quicker to my ear. I left Liverpool at the age of seventeen and returned by railway to my native village. I remained a year at home and drove the farmer's horses. I then went to the Victoria Asylum at Newcastle-upon-Tyne, where I earned 8s. a week in making ropes. I remained there until I was twenty-two years old. Whilst in Newcastle I got thoroughly acquainted with the streets, and used to take out and deliver goods in the town. I came home by the railway and stayed two or three months. I then found my way on foot and alone to Sunderland, 45 miles. I asked people on the way how to steer my course. I always learnt what turns I had to take and the distance from place to place. I could calculate very accurately the time it took me to complete any given distance, and knew exactly when I arrived at the end of it. I then found my way from Sunderland to Newcastle, some 15 miles of very busy road, and had a great many of the colliery railways to cross. I walked back from Newcastle to Colburn unattended and alone. I then, after remaining at home a short time, started for Leeds, and walked above 50 miles in two days. I am a very quick walker on a good road. I went in search of work. I went alone from Leeds to Bradford, 10 miles of very busy road. I returned home walking alone the whole way by Otley, Knaresborough, and Leming, about 50 miles. I married after my return from Newcastle and have two children. After my last journey from Bradford I settled down at Richmond. My wife never travels with me, I always go alone. At Richmond I commenced with a donkey and cart as a firewood gatherer. My wife and I gathered firewood and brought it in my cart to Richmond, and sold it to my customers. I next got a pony and larger cart, and have ever since regularly led coals from the railway station into the town. I can find my way to any house in the town and never have any assistance in driving my cart and going about. I get off and on to my cart as well as any other driver, and when it is empty I sit on my cart and drive with reins. With a load I go by the horse's head. I can tell instantly when any other vehicle is either coming towards me or coming past me in the same direction, and I turn my horse accordingly to avoid them. I never have any falls in walking alone, and never come in contact with anything when driving. I have never had any accident I groom my pony myself and go to purchase all the food it requires. I have always enjoyed good health. I have my amusements as well as work. I go angling in the River Swale with rod, and salmon roe as bait, and occasionally get a good dish of trout. I have also been a nut-gatherer, and found my way to the woods, and have gathered large quantities, which I have sold. I am fond of singing, and used to play the piano a little at Liverpool. I have not had any opportunities of doing so since. I do not always confine my leading coals to the town of Richmond; I occasionally take a load of coals or other articles, such as furniture, to a distance of 10 or 12 miles from the town. I was the other day employed with my horse and cart at Crake Hall near Bedale, 12 miles from Richmond. Of course I do all my work by myself and unattended by any one. RICHMOND, _2d June 1859_. Bessie refers in her diary at this time to MSS. in a considerable "state of advance;" but the only part of her work actually completed by herself and now recoverable is the title-page. She was too closely occupied with the work done in the Euston Road to give much time to the writing of a book. In the midst of a record of her literary work we come upon such an entry as "sold two brushes." Indeed there was no time in which she would not gladly throw aside anything else in order to "sell two brushes." Early in February she paid a short visit to friends at Ashling, in Sussex; and on the 26th of February we have the last entry in her diary. The full details of her busy life are at an end. There is no further detailed account of the interminable letters and appeals, the visits to blind men and women, the arrangements and plans and suggestions. They are all to go on for many a long year; but the labour of recording them is abandoned, and there is an attempt to diminish work which threatens to be overwhelming. One of her letters at this time is to Mr. Eyre, "Rector of Marlbourne." What almost insuperable difficulties spelling must offer even to the educated blind! How much more we all learn from sight, from reading, than from the dictionary! When a word occurs for the first time to a blind person he can only spell by ear; and Marlbourne for Marylebone is a very creditable solution of a difficulty. One of the most interesting workmen in the Institution at this time was both blind and deaf. Levy heard of, and, at Bessie's request, visited him in his own home. The poor fellow had worked to support two sisters and an aged mother until severe illness, fever, robbed him of sight and hearing. He had regained health, but sat in one corner of the room moaning "I am wretched, very wretched." Hearing no sound of his own voice he had ceased to speak to others, and sat in silence, save for these incessant moans, and in darkness; roused from time to time by a push on the shoulder and a plate of food put into his hands. The sisters did their best to support themselves and him by their needle, but he was as one living in the grave, and he was only twenty-one. Such a case excited Bessie's deepest compassion. In a single afternoon Levy roused the poor fellow from almost hopeless despondency, and placed him once more in communication with the world around; taught him the letters of the dumb alphabet on his own hand, and spelt out the joyful information that he could learn a trade and earn his living by it. He did not readily believe this, but from that time the moans of "wretched, very wretched" ceased. He was admitted at once as a pupil at Euston Road, and learnt so rapidly that in six weeks he was able to write letters to his friends. Also he had ceased to "spoil material," which is the general occupation of learners for many months, and was earning between four and five shillings a week; whilst at the end of a year he was in receipt of excellent wages. Bessie went frequently to the workshop "to talk to A." He would repeat aloud the letters formed upon his hand, and guess words and even sentences in a surprising manner. It was instructive to remark how soon an intelligent listener knows all you are going to say, and how unnecessary are many of our long explanations. Valuable lessons in brevity and conciseness were to be learnt from A., and the blind and deaf man soon brought you down to the bare bones of the information you had to give. An angry glance was thrown away upon him, and finger talk has no equivalent for that slight and incisive raising of the voice which implies that the speaker intends a listener to hear him to the end. The slow, monotonous utterance of the deaf man, a pronunciation which, as years passed on, became strangely unreal, and a sense of the loneliness to which he was condemned, attracted much attention to this intelligent man. After a time he married. His wife, a widow with a little girl, was no comfort to him; but the child soon became his inseparable and devoted companion. When work was over she used to read a newspaper to him. She uttered no sound, but sat with the paper in her lap, whilst her little fingers fluttered about his hand like the wings of a bird, and his slow monotonous voice followed her, repeating words and sentences, or telling her to go on to something else. One day Bessie, who was often accompanied by a friend, took with her Miss Elizabeth Wordsworth, daughter of the late Bishop of Lincoln, to have a chat with A. Miss Wordsworth sent her the following poem in memory of the visit: A MINISTRY OF LOVE TO ONE BLIND AND DEAF. Near him she stands, her fingers light In quick succession go Across his yielding palm, as white, As swift, as flakes of snow. The diamond on her hand, that gleams And flashes when it stirs, Toward other eyes may fling its beams, But never gladden hers. No word she speaks, no whisper soft His inner mind to reach; No glances casts, tho' looks are oft More eloquent than speech. The smile that gilds a friendly face Shall never meet his eye; Songs, footsteps, laughter, tears, give place To dreary vacancy. Silence and darkness, brethren twain For ever at his side, Still hold him in their double chain Inexorably tied. Yet love is stronger still, and she Even hither wins her way, And soothes the long captivity Beneath that iron sway. Such tenderness, long years ago, The nymphs of ocean led To stern Prometheus stretched in woe Upon his stony bed. Or in the shape of insect, flower, Or bird has helped to cheer, In later times, full many an hour Of bondage, sad and drear. But what can comfort, like the heart That sorrow's self has known; Since that has learnt the healing art From sufferings of its own. And casting selfish grief away Forgets its own distress In sorrows heavier still, that prey On some more comfortless. This she has learnt--the secret this Of her calm life below; This gives those lips that sober bliss And smoothes that peaceful brow. Yet more; the love of human kind, How pure soe'er it be, Can never fill the heart, designed To grasp infinity. True, when the night of grief is dark It gladdens us to ken The distant cottage fires, and mark The peaceful homes of men. But such as upward lift their eye Will see a worthier sight, The myriad stars, that in the sky Seem homes for angels bright. Thus guided they pursue their way Thro' loneliest heath and dell, Till on their work of mercy, they Come where their brethren dwell. And such as she no earthly glow Would e'er suffice for them, Shine on her, 'mid these dwellings low, Thou Star of Bethlehem! The "Song of Elizabeth" from the _Saint's Tragedy_ was published during the year 1859, and Bessie writes to Addison and Hollier to say that instead of an engraving she will have the price-list of the Association on the title-page. This remarkable decision they seem to have induced her to abandon, for the title-page is of the ordinary kind. There were at this time about a hundred and fifty blind persons deriving benefit from the Association: sixty-three were supplied with work at their own homes; forty-seven were employed at the Euston Road; the remainder were pupils, agents, travellers, shopman, and superintendent, whilst three received pensions. So many more were applying for work and instruction that at the May meeting the Bishop of Oxford offered a donation of £20 on condition that nineteen similar donations were announced in a given time. He thus raised £400 for the relief of some of the more pressing cases amongst the applicants. The increase of workmen made an increase in the sales necessary, and the trade of the Association was assuming formidable dimensions. The buying and selling, the control of workrooms and management of stock, the care of ledgers, accounts, bills and receipts, might now with great advantage have been made over to a competent and adequately paid sighted manager. Such an arrangement would have left Bessie free to devote herself to the charitable part of her enterprise; to elevate and educate the blind, to investigate cases, and make experiment with trades. With Levy as her faithful coadjutor how much might she not have done! She was pledged, however, to a more ambitious attempt, and felt herself bound in honour to show what the blind can do alone and unaided. A proposal was made in January 1859 to employ a "sighted" accountant, but as this was opposed by Bessie it was not carried. And yet at this very time the incessant and anxious work of past years was beginning to tell upon her, and she had urgent need of rest. She was mainly responsible for the funds necessary to carry on the business. Being familiar with every detail of the business, she was called upon to explain its intricacies to her Committee. She had often to justify and secure the carrying out of arrangements which did not meet with general approval. Every scheme, proposal, experiment, rested ultimately upon her; upon this one blind lady, whose health had never been good, but whose strenuous energy and strong sense of duty forbade her to say no to any appeal on behalf of fellow-sufferers. Museum, boarding-house, sick fund, musicians' association, with its classes for vocal and instrumental music, endowment fund, fund for establishing a West-end shop, fund in aid of tradesmen who had lost their sight; all these are the outcome of a single year's work. There are also letters innumerable to be written and answered, appeals to be made, applications to be replied to. She threw herself with fervid zeal into all her work, and a day was accounted lost if she had not accomplished in it something for the Association. Two sisters were married in 1858, but the diary contains no other record of such important events than "unavoidably nothing done." Her heart beat warm and true as ever, home and friends were dear as ever, but for a time her horizon was bounded by the narrow walls of one small dark house in the Euston Road. Herr Hirzel, director of the blind institution at Lausanne, who had visited the Association during the summer, was so well pleased with all he saw that he decided on his return to Switzerland to open workshops for the blind. At different times some six institutions had also applied for teachers or blind superintendents, but no workmen had been trained or were qualified to fill such posts. Bessie saw that this was an omission in her scheme, and at once resolved that special facilities for the training of intelligent blind men ought to be provided. In the autumn, however, the long threatened reaction from overwork set in, and she was prostrated by weakness and depression. In November she was induced to try the effect of complete rest, and paid a long promised visit to Miss Isabella Law, at Northrepps Rectory, near Cromer. She took with her a Foucault frame and taught Miss Law to use it, and what further employment she found during her short holiday is best told in Miss Law's letters. Writing at Christmas 1859 she says: It is just six weeks to-day since you left us. I can never forget that miserable morning; it is always haunting me like a dreadful dream that I try in vain to get rid of.... I hardly know what to tell you about myself; it is a very difficult subject to write about. I have been trying to do more in the school lately than I ever did before. I think of you when I am there, and try to do my best. Still I am afraid, as Madame Goldschmidt said of the clergyman, my best is very little. My sisters are going next week to spend a few days with some friends in the neighbourhood: how I should like to have you with me then. I remember so well your once speaking to me about accustoming myself to be alone whenever it was necessary, and not to depend too much on others for companionship, so now you see I am going to have a little trial in that way. You will think of me then, won't you? and I shall be thinking of you more than ever.... I took a bit of my writing this morning to show the school children, and they seemed delighted with it.... I must say good-bye now, ... and how much love I send I never could tell you. On the 5th of January 1860 Miss Law writes: I sincerely hope that this new year may be a very happy one to you and to all who are dear to you. It seems so strange to me to look back to this time last year. I feel somehow as if a change had come over my life since then. I mean I seem to see things in quite a new light, and to feel my responsibilities far more than I did before; and I know it is all through your influence. I feel it would have been indeed a happy year to me if the only blessing it had brought me had been your friendship, which I value far more than I can ever tell you.... My heart clings to every little remembrance of you one by one, and they are all very dear to me. No account of her life would be adequate which did not bring out the stimulating effect of Bessie's friendship, and the way in which even an hour spent with her would have its result, and open a way to useful activity. Miss Law was specially influenced with regard to her poems, in which Bessie took a warm interest. At first they were sent for approval and criticism, but before long Miss Law was more than able to stand alone, and she published a small volume, which was well received and favourably noticed. The following pretty lines have been preserved amongst Bessie's papers:-- Will you please tell me very truly what you think of this little poem? You know I have a great respect for your opinion, and that is why I send it. WHAT IS SYMPATHY? It is the perfect tune that lies Underneath all harmonies. The brook that sings in summertide Between the flowers on either side. It is that voiceless under part, That, still unheard, heart sings to heart. The interchange of thoughts that lie Too deep for louder melody. The breath that makes the lyre move With silent echoings of love. ISABELLA LAW. Bessie paid other short visits to old friends at this time. We hear of her with Miss Bathurst at Stanmore, and greatly interested in Miss Bathurst's most honoured friend, Lady Byron. She also stayed with Miss Butler, who remembers that one day when she was about to mount her horse Bessie stood stroking his legs, saying: "Surely this must be thorough-bred." Another time, as Bessie stood near him, the horse stretched out his head and took the rose she was wearing so gently from her dress that she did not know it until she was told that he was eating it. Bessie used to drive in a pony carriage with Miss Butler, and to puzzle her hostess by a request for a description of the scenery. On one occasion a gentleman who had become recently blind was asked to meet Bessie at Stanmore. It was very touching to see her sit by the blind man's side, take his hand and try to encourage and comfort him. Work for others, help for others; these were the things she told him that would make life worth living, and her own ardour was able to inspire him as well as others with hope and energy. FOOTNOTES: [7] _Town and Country Sermons_; 18. "Character of Peter." [8] Page 8. CHAPTER XV TIME OF TROUBLE "Good times and bad times and all times pass over." BEWICK'S VIGNETTES. Bishop Gilbert's family circle was fast diminishing. His eldest son and four daughters were married. The _sisterhood_ was broken up. Numerous home duties at Chichester and in London, together with the care of parents whose health was beginning to fail, engrossed the time and thought of the daughters at home. Bessie still received sympathy and assistance, but she lived a very independent life, and relied more and more upon the services of a confidential maid, who wrote her letters, made the entries in diary, note-book, and journal, from which we have taken extracts, and accompanied her wherever she went. Her entire absorption in the work of the Institution could not fail to become a source of isolation; and it began to cause anxiety to parents and friends. They knew her delicacy and the need in which she stood of constant watchful care, and they followed her with apprehension as she sailed out into the ocean of labour and endeavour. Some remonstrances from old and dear friends reached her, and the faithful Fraülein D. wrote as follows: Don't you allow that one great interest to absorb all others.... Remember that our very virtues can become snares of sin to us if we do not watch ourselves, our purest actions may lead us wrong. One great difficulty we have to deal with, in this our so complex state of trial, is to keep within us an even balance of things. Do the one thing, but do not leave the others undone, and above all seek, in all we do, not our own but the glory of God.... Don't you show a little want of faith and trust in your own eagerness and over-anxiety about your Institution, which, though most laudable in itself, may become a snare to you if it makes you neglect duties quite as, if not more, sacred? Bessie preserved this letter, and in her humility she would lay it deeply to heart; but she knew that the Institution was not a work in which she sought her own glory. She was labouring for the blind, who depended upon her, and whom she could not forsake. She had "put her hand to the plough," and could not draw back. In a very different tone we find a few words from her father, written after Miss Law had paid Bessie a visit in Queen Anne Street. PALACE, CHICHESTER, _28th September 1860_. MY DEAREST BESSIE--They tell me it will be a doleful parting between you and poor Miss Law, especially on her side, which I can well understand, as she has not the resource in active occupation which you have. Your mistake and suffering may be in taking too much of it, without allowing yourself, or rather, taking as a part of duty also, the _délassement_ of passing events, of social conversation and intercourse. Well, this is not exactly what I meant to say, but it may do on the principle of "a word to the wise." They tell me too you want £15, so here is my cheque for £15 and Archdeacon Mackenzie's, also on Coutts's, for £20. He says only it is a donation for your Institution in Euston Road. H. told me you have a notion he gave it for some specified purpose, the West End, for instance, but he says nothing of the kind. The cheques are each of them payable just as they are on being presented at Coutts's. I have acknowledged the £20 to the Archdeacon. Those at home do doubtless give you the chitchat news.... I suppose some one will write besides me, so I only add that I am, my dearest Bessie, yr. ever affectionate father, A. T. CICESTR. In the early part of 1860 Miss Bathurst wrote to congratulate Bessie on a "noble donation," coming "doubtless in answer to the law that they that seek shall find," and the donation has a pleasant history. One day when Bessie was in Queen Anne Street a servant told her that a lady wished to see Miss Gilbert. She went downstairs accompanied, as usual, by her maid, and on entering the room found one whom she discovered by her voice to be a very old lady, whose first words were: "My dear, I am very tired; send your maid for a glass of sherry." This was done, and when she had finished the sherry the old lady said: "My dear, I bring a contribution for your work. You see my relations have kept me a long time from having the control of my money, and now I am determined they shall never get a penny of it." Then she turned to the maid who had brought the sherry: "Young woman," she said, "count these notes." They were carefully wrapped in newspaper, ten notes for £50 each, and every note in its own piece of newspaper. They were duly counted and passed to Bessie. "You will acknowledge them, my dear," said the old lady, "in the _Times_ and under initials." And that was all. No more was ever heard of her, and there was no clue to her identity. Singularly enough there was a second donation of £500, also from a lady, in October of the same year. The first announcement of it came from Levy, who writes from 127 Euston Road. _17th October 1860._ DEAR MADAM--In speaking finances yesterday I said that we could do nothing more than we had done unless God sent us a special blessing. God has sent us a special blessing in a donation of Five Hundred Pounds. His instrument in this gift is a lady, who did not wish her name mentioned, but Mr. Evans, the gentleman to whose discretion the giving or holding the donation was left, quite agreed with me that her name should be published. Her name is Miss Terry.--I am, dear madam, yours truly, W. H. LEVY. The following letter is from the Mr. Evans alluded to: _17th October 1860._ MADAM--I think it will give you pleasure to be informed that, having £500 placed in my hands yesterday for a Blind Institution, I searched out the one with which you were said to be connected. After going round Euston Square twice, calling at the wrong places, I at last traced it to the Euston Road, where I saw the Report and Mr. Levy. When I told him my object he literally cried for joy, and this I think will be interesting also to you to know. The lady who gives this handsome donation is Miss Mercy E. Terry of Odiham, Hants, through her bankers, Messrs. Child and Co. I need not say, rejoicing as I do in such charitable gifts, that it affords me very considerable pleasure in being the bearer of this intelligence to you, although a stranger, as greatly interested in the aforesaid Institution. The money has this day been paid to Messrs. Williams and Co. on account of the Society.--I am, madam, yours very obedly., E. P. EVANS. Bessie, in acknowledging the letter, asks if the donation is in response to an appeal for help. Mr. Evans replies: "Thanks are due to Miss Terry alone, but chiefly to a watchful Providence who so appropriately guided her charity to your Institution in need of it. Your individual application had no influence in the matter; for, in fact, applications of that kind are so numerous that it is not my practice to give them attention. I did not know that you had written until you told me; but now I find that you did so, because your letter lies amongst others put aside. "Your wishes and prayers are, however, answered in another way, and that is very satisfactory." These donations gladdened Bessie's heart, and were frequently referred to as coming at a time when heavy pecuniary anxiety was pressing upon her. She had applied this year to Mr. Tatton of Manchester, but he replied that it would be impossible to raise funds in Manchester for a London institution; people would feel that the many indigent blind in Lancashire and Cheshire had a stronger claim upon them. He wishes her success, and informs her that they are busily engaged in erecting a large addition to the Blind Asylum in Manchester to enable them to carry out the system of teaching trades to, and finding regular employment for, non-resident blind. "The success of your Association," he adds, "in establishing and carrying out such a system, has been one main cause of inducing us to take such steps as will enable us, although at a very heavy cost, to give the plan a fair trial in Manchester, and I feel very sanguine as to its success." This information would give as much pleasure in its own way as the announcement of a donation of £500. In addition to her autograph letters, a circular asking for custom for the Institution, and signed by the Rev. W. Champneys, Sir John Anson, and the Rev. Pelham Dale, was issued in 1860. These earnest, patient, importunate appeals went steadily on; they were written by herself or by any friend whose sympathy she could enlist, and sent to any and every newspaper that would consent to insert them. But in spite of all efforts stock was increasing, sales diminishing, and an augmented number of blind applicants clamouring for admission. The boarding-house began to be a source of anxiety, not only on account of the expense connected with it, but by reason of the character of many of the inmates. Blind men were sent to the London boarding-house at the suggestion and with the warm approval of persons interested in them; and in the belief that they would learn a trade and earn their own living. But in many cases the man only looked upon London as a happy hunting ground. The last thing he intended to do when he got there was to work. He wanted a comfortable home, a small and certain allowance, and to beg in the London streets. Tied up together are letters warmly recommending a man to the benefits of the Institution, detailing his many virtues as well as his needs, followed by others from the same writer sorrowfully recognising failure, and very frequently acknowledging that the man was "at his old tricks again." Bessie's faith in her cause was unshaken even by these painful experiences. She showed infinite pity and tenderness to all blind applicants, and gave to each one who was admitted a fair opportunity to improve and reform. She believed that honesty, goodness, and habits of industry were constantly found beneath the garb of the blind beggar, and that he must not be judged by the ordinary standard, because his condition of idleness had been enforced, and was often of long standing. She learned to know all the temptations to which the blind were exposed, and whilst she fully recognised and acknowledged them, she endeavoured to show a way of escape. In spite of many failures she could point to individuals and families rescued from beggary and placed in a position to which it had seemed impossible even to aspire. Still, with all allowances which her wide charity and large experiences were ready to make, it soon became apparent that a boarding-house for blind men and women conducted by a blind man would not answer. Abuses crept or rather leapt in, and Bessie, suffering and depressed, was unable to intervene actively, as she would have done if her health had permitted. There seemed to be no alternative, and the boarding-house was closed. Mrs. Powell, sister of the Rev. F. D. Maurice, and twin sister of Mrs. Julius Hare, was one of Bessie's old and dear friends. She was a member of the Committee of the Association, and took keen interest in its work. We learn from her letters that Bessie was too ill to take part in the arrangements for the workpeople at Christmas 1860, or to attend the Committee meeting in January 1861. Mrs. Powell sends a prescription for a plaster "which seems to do wonders in neuralgia, and in soothing the brain after there has been any strain upon it." Miss Bathurst also writes frequently at this time. "How earnestly I hope sleep may be given back to you," she says. "Those long nights of waking will try you sorely." She tells of a sermon preached by Mr. Maurice on the text, "Endeavouring to keep the unity of the spirit," and how he had dwelt on the change in the meaning of the word endeavour since it was first used by the translators, and that it was at that time a word full of energy, implying, "Put out all your force as for something which you are capable of accomplishing." But Bessie was in no condition to receive encouragement from words which would at another time have roused her like the call of a trumpet. The day of endeavour was for the present at an end; weary months passed on, and her condition was unchanged. An abscess formed in the lower jaw, and, after consultation, it was resolved to remove eleven teeth. It was also decided to perform this severe operation all at one time and without the use of chloroform. There were special difficulties on account of the condition of Bessie's throat and the adjacent tissues which seemed at the time to justify this decision; but the result was disastrous, almost fatal. It was months before she rallied from the shock of the acute and prolonged pain. When, three weeks after the operation, she was at the lowest ebb and her condition very critical, it was discovered that the spire of Chichester Cathedral was in imminent danger and must shortly fall. Just that part of the palace in which her room was situated was believed to be in danger of being crushed if the spire fell, and it was absolutely necessary that she should be removed. The Dean and Mrs. Hook made immediate preparations to receive her at the Deanery, which was supposed to be out of danger. She was taken from her bed on the 21st of February 1861, and carried to the safest room in the palace, but before she could be removed from the house the spire fell, collapsing like a house of cards, injuring no animate thing, and doing little harm to any other part of the structure. Bessie was really proud of that spire. It had been good and beautiful in life, and its fall was the type of a peaceful and appropriate end. Chichester mourned its loss; it was, as the local journal said, "the most symmetrical spire in England, on which the eye of Her Majesty and her Royal Consort when in the Isle of Wight must have sometimes rested with delight." To the blind lady the cathedral and its beautiful spire had also been very dear. But as she had been too ill for apprehension, so she was at first spared the sharp pang of regret. Many months of prostration followed the dental operation, and it was more than a year before she was again restored to health. As soon as she could attend to letters, she received frequent reports of the work in London. The underground railway was in course of construction, and had blocked the Euston Road. Trade was annihilated there, and the blind had lost all ready-money custom. Debts were assuming ominous proportions, and Levy, upon whom the whole strain and responsibility now fell, showed signs of failing health. Mrs. Powell wrote on the 7th of May 1861 from Palace Gardens, to give Bessie an account of the Committee meeting. She said that: Levy was in a weakly, nervous state, soon exhausted. He said it was nervous fever from which he suffered, and that the doctor told him he must have rest. In his absence from the room it was proposed to arrange that he might spend every Saturday and Sunday out of London. Mr. Dixon, the oculist, who was a member of the Committee, said he must be careful not to go too far, as in a weak state of health people suffered more than they gained by long railway journeys. Levy came back into the room and announced that nothing could be done or thought of till "the annual meeting" was over. There was a debt of £1400 hanging over the Institution, half of it trade debt, and half from customers who could not be got to pay ready money; and Levy announced that the loss of custom from the underground railway stopping access to the shop amounted to £20 a week. Mrs. Powell concludes by saying: I need not add that much sympathy and regret were expressed by the Committee at your continued weakness and suffering, and all hoped soon to see you there again. I know how anxious you must feel to be amongst them; but you will remember "your strength is now to sit still," until it can be said "Arise, He calleth thee." In patience you will possess your spirit. May God bless you at all times. On the 13th of May the Bishop writes to give an account of the annual meeting held at St. James's Hall, and presided over by the Bishop of London. QUEEN ANNE STREET, W., _13th May 1861_. MY VERY DEAR BESSIE--Ford [her maid] gives a most encouraging account of your progress and walking performances, and I can reciprocate with a capital one of this day's meeting. The room was quite full, galleries and all; 2067 were stated to be present. There were some donations, but I have not heard yet the amount of the collection. It is clear to me the Association has now taken its footing in London and in the nation, and that with God's blessing it will go on and become a national Institution, and that you, my dear child, may humbly rejoice in it. I have not time for more.--Yr. ever affectionate father, A. T. CICESTR. Such a letter would greatly help forward Bessie's convalescence, which, though slow, was beginning to show signs of progress. In July a letter from Levy must have reassured her as to the state of his health, and it is interesting as the description of a blind man at a fire, with all his wits about him, and other blind men to help him. 127 EUSTON ROAD, _3d July 1861_. DEAR MADAM--Last night a fire of an alarming character broke out nearly opposite the Institution, and at one time our premises were placed in great danger, large masses of fire falling thickly over our premises for upwards of half an hour. It is a matter of thankfulness that I was at home. Our officers and other people hastened from their homes to our assistance. I caused the cocoa-matting to be taken from the floors, immersed in water, and spread over the roof, and every vessel capable of holding water was filled and passed from hand to hand in regular succession, so that the stream was continually kept up on all exposed parts. The office books were tied in blankets ready to be carried away, but providentially the wind changed and we were relieved from anxiety. Four houses were destroyed or injured, but the only damage we have received is from the water, which is very slight--I am, dear madam, yours truly, W. H. LEVY. During the early summer of 1861 a tent was set up in the garden at Chichester, to which Bessie was carried on all suitable days. She was happy with birds and trees and flowers around her, and received visits from many old and tried friends. Her recovery was very slow, but there was always sufficient progress to point to the ultimate restoration of health. Throughout the year the workpeople sent affectionate greetings and appreciative verses to their generous friend and patron. Bessie resumed the occupations of her youth, and in the months of her enforced absence from London and the work of the Association she wrote long poems and gave her time to music and reading. With a view to publication, she submitted some of her poems to her old friend, the Rev. H. Browne, asking for a candid opinion. He writes as follows: PEVENSEY, EASTBOURNE, _15th August 1861_. DEAR BESSIE--I have read your poems, and, as you desired, have criticised closely. The faults are chiefly in the versification. Here and there I suspect they have not been written down correctly from your dictation. The thoughts, sentiments, and images are very pleasing, and the expression generally good. That on "The Poplar Leaves" is exceedingly pretty and gracefully expressed. It needs but a few alterations to make it all that it should be. "Spring" is striking in point of thought, but the versification should flow more smoothly, and the diction here and there needs correction. "Thoughts Suggested by a Wakeful Night" are so good that I should like to see them made as perfect as possible, and as blank verse needs more finish than rhyme this task will need some pains. I hope you will not be discouraged at my criticism. If you think of sending any of these poems to some magazine "The Poplar Leaves" would best lead the way. I am sorry I cannot help you in this, having no connection with that kind of periodical literature nor any acquaintance with its conductors. You will see that I have made no notes on "Jessie." There are many pleasing lines in it, but it wants unity, the introductory part having no necessary connection with the catastrophe, and the latter being only a distressing accident.... The poems, which with returning health and strength were laid aside, are very defective in form, but the thoughts and feelings that were a solace to the blind lady cannot fail to interest the reader. These poems also show what the Chichester garden was to her, and what intellectual interests and resources she had when she was incapable of the active work of her Association. THE POPLAR LEAVES. The poplar leaves are whispering low In the setting summer beams; As they catch the lovely farewell glow That lights the hills and streams. What tell they in those murmurs low, Under the rising moon? As they wave so gracefully to and fro, I would ask of them a boon. Have you any word for me, A word I fain would hear? 'Twas dropped perchance beneath your tree Too faint for human ear. Ye whisper so very low yourselves, That as they lightly pass, Ye needs must hear e'en fairy elves At revels in the grass. Then tell me, tell me, if she came Beneath the setting sun, And breathed a song, a sigh, a name Or sweet word ever a one. Then whisper it again to me, Ye have not let it go, It thrilled the whole height of your tree Through every leaf I trow. Yet still they whispered on and on, But never a word for me; Till, from the hill-tops, light was gone; And I left the poplar tree. Again I stood beneath that tree When the fields were full of sheaves; But now it mattered not to me What said the poplar leaves; For one stood with me 'neath the moon, As they dropped their whispers low, From whom I gained that precious boon, The word I longed to know. LINES SUGGESTED BY A WAKEFUL NIGHT. Oh sleep, where art thou? I could chide thee now That truant-like thou'rt absent from thy place; Or e'en could call thee by a harsher name, Deserter; yet I will not brand thee thus. Oh! wherefore dost thou leave me? Haste and come, That in thy presence I forget all else. Except thou grant me from thy precious store Some lovely dream of joy; that, like a child, Lies folded to thy breast, but which thou canst At will send forth to wander here or there, Bearing some wondrous message on its way. Are such dreams thine? scarce know I whence they are, Yet sleep in sober earnest, I believe They are not truly thine, but dwell above In worlds of light where thou art all unknown. Yet hold they here strange intercourse with thee, So that thy soft'ning veil is o'er them thrown, And a mist in part doth dim their brightness, And dull the melody of their sweet voice. While, in the language of their home, they tell Of its joy and beauty, bidding our souls, As treasures, keep the whispers which they bring. For though their sweet voice muffled be and low, And though thy dewy mist enfold them, Yet speak they truly with such heavenly power, That in the joy and light of such a presence Doth the spirit see this world, and heaven To be more near than ofttimes we can tell In the movements of our life; when the links Uniting both, by us are left untraced; While sad and weary we do often mourn Their dreary distance, since our faithless hearts Will sunder them so far, then cannot rest In the sever'd world they make unto themselves, Since that they are inheritors of both. And He who dwelt on earth, to prove with power That both these worlds were one, meeting in Him, Since by His mighty will of love He came To link again upon the Cross the chain Which should so closely evermore have bound them, Which, save for Him, had utterly been sever'd, He hath said, for every age to hear, Within is the Kingdom of God; blest truth, Within; and yet we look afar and gaze Around in search of somewhat we call heaven, And oft perchance thinking 'tis found, rejoice, But soon in sadness is the quest renewed. For that we seek a kingdom of our own, No hope than this more utterly forlorn, We have no kingdom and we cannot reign, In serving only can we find our life And perfect freedom, the true life of kings. But whom to serve we may, nay needs must, choose; And if the happy choice be made, then ours Is the glorious privilege to know That earth and heaven (howe'er Rebellion, With his sceptre point in triumph, saying Behold me, by earth's homage, king confessed), One kingdom are, rul'd ever by one King. Who through His love will teach this, more and more Until our hearts, living His life of love, Shall know and feel His presence all their heaven. EVENING. 1. Ye sounds of day, why all so still, And hushed as if in sleep? Is there some power whose sovereign will Bids you such silence keep? I ask'd, no voice replied, it seemed The while as tho' all nature sweetly dreamed, But soon that spirit of the shade The breeze, in softest whispers, answer made. 2. Hast thou seen the sun, with fainting beams In parting, kiss the hills and streams, Didst mark the blush of that farewell glow And how he linger'd loth to go? For soon to the queen of the glowing west, He knew he must yield and sink to rest. 3. He had caught the sound of her step from far, Had heard her greet her own bright star, And triumphing tell how the god of day Would yield his kingdom to her sway, And how she comes to reign alone, For he is gone, that glorious one. 4. O'er sounds she holds entire sway, When she wills silence all obey, Soon as her coming draweth near, Many are hush'd, that she may hear Those only which she makes her own, Whose music breathes a lulling tone. 5. The streams that flow in melody, The soothing insect-hum, The green leaves whispering softly While I, on light wings come, And with low murmurs lull the groves, These all make music which she loves; All these, when the stirring day doth end, To give her sweet welcome their voices blend. 6. Then ceas'd the voice, but all around Floated a gentle murmuring sound; While fragrant breath of greeting rose From flowers sinking to repose, To welcome evening's peaceful reign, The while responding to the strain, Their willing tribute of thanks and praise My heart and voice at once did raise: 7. Oh evening, I will sing to thee, Thou silent mother of thought; My heart shall breathe the melody, With glowing rapture fraught; Yes, I will sing to thee, and tell How I love thy solemn hour, How in thy stillness lies a spell Of soothing holy power. 8. Thou comest in calm majesty To thy bowers in the west; And weary nature blesseth thee, For she knows thou bringest rest, She waits thy coming anxiously, And all the lovely flowers Droop their leaves in thanks to thee, For life-renewing showers. 9. Well may they bless thee, for I trow When the joyous morn doth wake, And with its beams their slumbers break, All fresh and bright their leaves shall glow; And to the deep feeling heart, That which can love thee best, How beautiful thou art! Cradle of peace and rest. 10. It loves thy presence, and to thee By chains of deepest thought is bound. Such thought as sets the spirit free Hallowing all around. 11. Then wakes in man his nature high, He feels his immortality; And in the peace at evening given Bethinks him he is heir of heaven. CHAPTER XVI THE FIRST LOSS "The thought of our past years in me doth breed Perpetual benediction."--WORDSWORTH. In August 1861 Bessie was removed to Bognor for the benefit of sea air, and began to show signs of complete recovery. Some of the sisters were her constant companions and devoted nurses; she received visits from her parents, and loving letters from many friends. She returned to Chichester in the late autumn, restored to her usual average of health; and in December the Bishop wrote to her, the eldest daughter at home, as he had done in the old days when she was a girl, to prepare for the return of the family from Brighton. Christmas was spent as usual at the palace, and with the new year Bessie began gradually to resume her work for the Institution. Her first frame letter was written in March 1862 to her father, and has been preserved: PALACE, CHICHESTER, _1st March 1862_. MY DEAREST PAPA--I had long ago settled that my first letter with the frame should be to you, and most thankful I am to be able to be at the "stocking making" again, though very likely I shall not make a very good workwoman; but please take the work, such as it is, as a little sign that Bessie has not forgotten all the love shown her while she was ill, how you used to come and sit with her in the midst of all you had to do. I am very very thankful to be so much stronger, and to have been brought through the suffering as I have been. I hope you will take care of yourself when you start for confirmations, the winds now are so bitterly cold. Indeed, you do provide well for us; it will be very enjoyable to have the Brownes. Did you see that curious letter in _The Times_ not long since, headed "Is it--;" I thought it would interest you. I hope it has not been necessary to light gas to-day for morning service. However, the day has not been very bright here. Yesterday I was out in the garden in the morning, but I have a little cold and so was not tempted to-day, as there was no sun. Robin is to sleep here to-night; he preaches, I think, at St. Andrews. Very much love to mamma and all.--I am ever your dutiful and loving child, BESSIE. The difficulties of the Association had increased during the period of Bessie's illness and absence. Subscriptions and donations now amounted to between two and three thousand a year, and goods had been sold to about the same amount. But so large a percentage on sales was paid to all blind agents and travellers and to Mr. Levy that the increase of trade threatened to swamp the undertaking. Moreover, sales did not keep pace with productive power, and a large quantity of stock was on hand. A Sub-Committee was appointed to investigate the financial condition of the Association, and their report, practical and sound as it was, proved very distasteful to Bessie. They advised the employment of a sighted shopman, the substitution of some easier and more accurate method of keeping accounts, the payment of all money received into the bank, and an arrangement under which Mr. and Mrs. Levy should receive a fixed salary in lieu of commission on sales. They also intimated their belief that the time had come when the Society must look to its director simply for general management, and must be prepared to employ a thoroughly efficient staff in the shop and workrooms. The report really amounted to a suggestion to supersede her faithful manager; a step to which Bessie and Levy were equally opposed. Bessie hoped to avert it by raising money to pay the debts, and open a West-end shop; and as the Committee was powerless without the alliance of the Lady President, there was at any rate a reprieve. To obviate one of the difficulties arising from want of funds, the Bishop offered £40 a year as the wages of a sighted shopman, in addition to his subscription of £5. He announces this in a letter written from Queen Anne Street on the 22d May 1862, to Bessie at Chichester. His offer was gratefully accepted by the Committee. It was also arranged that donations and subscriptions should be paid into the banking account; and not, as hitherto, used as soon as received in the payment of bills and wages. But the director was unwilling to relinquish any of his duties, and Bessie considered that when her own health, which was rapidly improving, should be quite re-established, the assistance she could give would lighten his duties and responsibilities. Under these circumstances there seemed no pressing need of reform in the management. Bessie had one remedy for all the suggestions of the Sub-Committee; and this was to plead both in public and in private for money and custom. In 1863 there were articles and letters in _The Times_, and in all the principal London journals, and a paper in Miss Yonge's _Monthly Packet_ by Mrs. Hooper, who had previously written on the subject in _Household Words_. Mr. Gladstone was asked to speak at the annual meeting to be held in May, and replied: 11 DOWNING STREET, WHITEHALL, _17th March 1863_. MADAM--It would be with so much regret that I should decline a request proceeding from you, that although uncertain whether my public duties may permit me to attend the meeting to which you refer, on the 11th May, I cheerfully engage to do so, subject only to the contingency of any call upon me elsewhere, such as I may be unable to decline.--I have the honour to be, madam, your very faithful servant, W. E. GLADSTONE. Miss Gilbert. Mr. Gladstone attended the meeting and advocated the claims of the Association, not, as he said, from motives of philanthropy but as a political economist, and because it was founded on sound principles. He said: "While this Association aims to promote the general welfare of the blind, it aims at promoting that welfare in a very specific manner and by well-determined means. It is not founded on the idea that the blind, because they have suffered a great and heavy visitation, are therefore to be the mere passive recipients of that which the liberality of their fellow-creatures may bestow. It does not proceed on the idea that because the blind are so, they have therefore ceased to partake in other respects in that mysterious nature of which we are all partakers, with its immense capabilities and powers, with its high hopes and great dangers. For in all other respects the blind continue to be sharers in every thing pertaining to us as men; and if I rightly apprehend the idea of this Institution, it is this, that while we minister to the wants of the blind in a specific manner, yet we still consider them as rational beings, as members of society, as capable of various purposes, as not intended to be sent into a corner, or to be excommunicated from us; but as intended to bear their part as citizens, as enlightened and civilised creatures, and as Christians. Employment given to the blind is a great source of happiness. The sentence which was termed the primeval curse, if on one side it presented the aspect of a curse, also presented on the other the aspect of a blessing,--the necessity, the condition of true happiness. Employment is a blessing for us all, but it is much more to the blind. Employment to the blind is the condition of mental serenity, of comfort and resignation. Employment to the blind is also the condition of subsistence,--that is, of honourable and independent subsistence. It is a great thing for an institution when we are enabled to say that its rules and practice are in harmony with political economy, for political economy is founded on truth. I believe that the rules of the Association are based on the laws which regulate the accumulation and distribution of the means of subsistence. In this Association we have the union of what the coldest prudence would dictate, and of what the most affectionate Christian heart would desire." Mr. Gladstone was at that time the Chancellor of the Exchequer, and his advocacy was very valuable. The pecuniary result of the meeting, which had given her some months of labour, was most gratifying to Bessie, and she resumed her work of collecting funds with fresh ardour. We find her making application, in vain, for a grant from the Peabody Fund. The question of State aid for the blind was suggested to her, and she set to work in the usual patient and thorough way, to obtain information and to look around for influential help. But the autumn brought sorrow and grave anxiety, which almost put a stop to other work. Mrs. Gilbert, whose health had long been failing, declined rapidly. Bessie remained at Chichester, and wrote constantly and very tenderly to the sister, Mrs. Elliot, who was unable to leave her own home, and yet anxious to be with her mother if the illness should prove alarming. Bessie writes an autograph letter on 9th December 1863, tells of the arrival of married sisters at the palace, of the anxiety of Dr. Tyacke and her father, of the sympathy they all feel for the one who cannot join them, "we know how much your heart is with us, and how much we should like to have you here.... I have just heard that Mary thinks mamma looking better than she expected, and Sarah says she does not think her looking quite so ill as on Monday. It is a pleasure to tell you anything the least cheering.... You do not know how sorry we all are for you; I hope you will not find this letter difficult to read. I wished especially to write to you to-day to tell you how we all think of you, and feel for and with you in all this difficulty and anxiety." That evening a younger sister prepared some arrowroot in the sick-room, and the blind daughter administered it carefully, spoonful after spoonful, to her dying mother. "It pleased them both so much," we are told, and it was the last office of love, for on the 10th December Mrs. Gilbert died. The death of this warm-hearted, generous woman, who had made home so happy for her children, devoted wife and loving mother, was a crushing blow. Death had not visited the home for nearly thirty years, and this great grief opened up the possibility of future loss, and was as a pillar of cloud that followed them. Miss Law, writing to Bessie on the 23d of January 1864, says: I can indeed most fully enter into all you have felt and are feeling still, under this dark shadow, which has fallen around you; but surely by and by you will be enabled to see the light that must be shining behind it. Oh, I do trust that the sad empty place in all your hearts may each day be filled more and more with the loving presence of Him who has sounded all the deepest depths of human sorrow and suffering, that He might know how to feel for and comfort us the better. Yes, you must indeed feel comforted already in the thought of the fulness of her joy and rest and peace. I am very glad your poor father has been so strengthened through his great trouble; he is rich in having many loving children to help and comfort him.... My book has been far more successful already than I had expected; there have been several very nice reviews; we are going to have them reprinted altogether, and then I will send you a copy.... Some day I should like to know your thoughts about my little poems, and which ones you like best among them. Dear Miss Proctor [Adelaide] is still very ill, though at times she revives wonderfully. I was able to see her twice when I was in town. She writes to me now and then herself, and her sister Edith constantly. Not long before Mrs. Gilbert's death the possible marriage of a younger daughter had greatly interested her. She looked forward with confidence to her child's future happiness, and when her own condition became serious she begged that in no case might the marriage be postponed. It was therefore solemnised in March 1864 as quietly as possible. This sister, H----, had been for some years Bessie's special ally, and the loss of her active help and unfailing sympathy was severely felt. CHAPTER XVII HOW THE WORK WENT ON "He who has but one aim, and refers all things to one principle, and views all things in one light, is able to abide steadfast, and to rest in God."--THOMAS À KEMPIS. Goods manufactured by the blind had been for some years advanced to blind agents on a system known as "sale or return." This had proved satisfactory so long as the agents were carefully selected. But there had been some relaxation in the requisite caution, and large consignments had been made to blind men who returned neither money nor goods, and who were found to be without either honesty or cash. In 1864 the loss to the Institution by sale and return amounted to more than £1200. Bessie was not discouraged by the loss. She felt so keenly the force of the temptations to which the blind were exposed, and the possibility that they had at first hoped and intended to be honest, and had only gradually fallen into evil ways, that it was with difficulty she could be induced to acquiesce in the abolition of a system which worked so badly. However, it had to be given up, and she set to work to pay the debts incurred. Instead of the annual meeting of May 1865, a bazaar in aid of the funds of the Institution was suggested. The first idea of this was very distasteful to Bessie. She had a horror of the ordinary bazaar. But it was pointed out that a sale of goods on behalf of the blind, held in the right place and by the right persons, would have none of the features to which she so justly objected. Her scruples were overcome, and after she had given her consent she devoted the autumn and winter months of 1864 and the early part of 1865 to the necessary preparations for the undertaking. She applied to the Duke and the late Duchess of Argyle for permission to hold the sale in Argyle Lodge. They very kindly consented; and the Duchess suggested that if any use was to be made of the grounds of Argyle Lodge the date fixed should not be too early in the spring. In consequence of this advice it was resolved to hold the sale on the 21st and 22d of June. As the time appointed drew near, Bessie's labours were saddened and rendered difficult by a great loss. Her brother-in-law, Colonel the Honourable Gilbert Elliot, who had never quite recovered from the effects of the South African and Crimean campaigns, was taken seriously ill in March and died on the 25th of May 1865. The arrangements for the sale, which was a public undertaking, were now completed, and it was decided to proceed with it, but the work was carried on by Bessie at great cost and with a heavy heart; for, as she says in one of her rare autograph letters, sent to Mrs. Elliot on the 25th May: "You know how we all love dear Gilbert." Many friends came forward to offer such help as could be given, and the sale promised to be a success. The list of stall-holders was excellent, and encouraged Bessie to hope for a good attendance and good results. Lady Constance Grosvenor, Lady Blantyre, Lady Jocelyn, Lady Victoria Wellesley, the Marchioness of Waterford and Lady Anson, the Marchioness of Ormonde, Miss Gilbert, Mrs. Imwood Jones, Mrs. Green, Mrs. King, Mrs. Fox, Mrs. C. Dyke and Lady Geraldine St. Maur held stalls. Gate money and the sale of goods produced £1078. Over £200 was received in donations, and the net result of the sale was more than £1300. Bessie had good reason to be satisfied, not only with the money but with the influential patrons she had secured for the Institution. The report for the following year gives an imposing list of vice-patrons,--the Archbishops of Canterbury and York, the Dukes of Rutland and Argyle, the Earls of Abergavenny, Chichester, and Darnley, the Bishops of St. David's, Chichester, Lichfield, Oxford, St. Asaph, and Lincoln, Lord Ebury, Lord Houghton, Mr. Gladstone, Sir Roundell Palmer, the Dean of Westminster, and Professor Fawcett. The pecuniary result of the sale, though perhaps not all that was expected, seemed to justify the Committee in taking a West-end shop. They secured No. 210 Oxford Street, and decided to keep the old houses in the Euston Road as workshops. Mr. Levy, in a letter sent to Chichester on the 30th September 1865, announces the completion of the arrangements for a lease on the terms offered by the Committee. He adds that one brushmaker has a shop nine doors off, and another brushmaker has a shop twenty-four doors off, but he thinks their vicinity will not injure the Association. He probably expected that influential patrons and their friends would purchase from the blind, and that no orders would go astray. This expectation was not realised, and in the course of two or three years the vicinity of the two brush shops was found to be a serious disadvantage. During the early summer of this year Bessie received a letter written on behalf of the Committee of the Blind Asylum at Brighton; asking if their schoolmistress and her assistant, who were not themselves blind, could be received for "a few days" in the "asylum in the Euston Road." They wanted to see the working of it, and more especially to learn the trades taught to women. Bessie replied that the Institution was not an "asylum," and that no one could be received to live in the house. She expressed her disapproval of the employment of "sighted" teachers, but offered to arrange with the Brighton Committee for the reception of one or two blind persons to be taught brush-making and other trades, with a view to becoming teachers. She explained fully the objects of the Association, and expressed her opinion that an attempt to acquire any trade "in a few days" could only result in misconception and failure. There were several letters on both sides, but neither yielded. Bessie would not consent to train "sighted" teachers "in a few days," and Brighton would not send blind pupils. Three years previously the Davenport Institution had applied for a blind teacher. A man trained by the Association had been sent, and had given entire satisfaction. He succeeded a "sighted" teacher, and was said to have done more in six months than his predecessor in two years. Bessie always urged the necessity of employing blind teachers, on the ground that they alone could know all the difficulties of the blind; and it would have been impossible for her to sanction so retrograde a step as the training of "sighted" teachers in an institution full of blind persons, many of whom were quite capable of teaching others. Bessie left London much exhausted by the labours and sorrow of the spring. She required a long rest to restore her strength. We have a short account of her summer in the following letter to Miss Butler, written in October, from Queen Anne Street. MY DEAR MISS BUTLER--... I am sure you must have thought it strange that I have not answered your letter long before this, but I wanted to have the pleasure of writing to you myself, and I have just lately had a good deal of work, I mean handy-work, which has prevented my so doing. Added to which I only returned home about a fortnight ago after, for me, a wonderfully long absence, about which I must tell you presently. I have come up to-day from Chichester for our Committee to-morrow, and am talking to you in this way in the evening. I too am very sorry not to have seen you this year, but I hope we may see you still. How are you after all your nursing and anxiety. You must want some refreshment, I should think. Now with regard to Mr. ---- I shall be very glad to do anything I can, but I really hardly see what I can say or do. My father generally likes these sort of things to be official, and I really don't think I should do any good by mentioning Mr. ----'s name before the ordination. Papa would only say to me: "The examination must take its usual course, and I cannot do anything," he would say. Still I will take an opportunity of saying something, nor would I hesitate at all about it, but that I really think that with papa such a mention would do no good. I hope you will quite understand that I have not said all this from any unwillingness to do what you ask, but really because I don't see how to do so to any purpose; otherwise it would give me particular pleasure to do it for you at your request. I am very glad indeed you have succeeded so well with ----. Every such practical proof of what a blind person can do is a help more or less to the general cause. Thank you very much for making the experiment with her. I told you I had been long away from home. I felt I wanted a complete change. I don't know when I ever felt this so much. Well, I paid some visits, one at about twenty-three miles from Birmingham, and from thence I went to the festival. I heard _St. Paul_; and the day but one after the _Messiah_. I cannot tell you what enjoyment this music was to me; never did I hear such choruses. Each individual singer seemed to love the music. I shall never forget the wondrous beauty of the singing. However, I was completely knocked up afterwards for three or four days, but it was well worth all the headache and exhaustion which I had after it. The journey there and back was a very great additional fatigue. Altogether I enjoyed my visits very much, and am all the better for them, ready, I hope, please God, for plenty of work this winter. Will you please send me the money in your hands before December. We have deposited money towards the working capital, and I am most anxious if possible to find money for current expenses without touching this capital, and also if possible to add to the deposit. Of course the more custom the better; I very much want regular custom from wine merchants for baskets, that we may employ basketmakers accordingly. Can you get some such custom with my love to your Mother I am yours ever affectionately Bessie Gilbert my sisters are well only Sarah at home Papa very well good bye. The last sentence is printed as it stands, and gives a specimen of the occasional want of capitals and of punctuation almost inevitable when the writer is hurried. But think of the concentration required to write letters which allow of no interruption and no revision. In the autumn of this year an excellent scheme was inaugurated, capable of a development which it has never yet received. The object of it was to enable blind persons living in the country to learn a trade suited to their own neighbourhood, and to be instructed in reading and writing without the expense and very grave risk of a prolonged residence in London. It was proposed to send a blind teacher, with his wife, to lodge in any village or town where there were persons whose friends were willing and able to provide for their instruction. These persons were to be taught at their own homes, or in some more convenient place, a remunerative trade, such as cane and rushwork, the making of beehives, rush baskets, and garden nets; mat-making, chair-caning, etc. They were also to be taught reading, and the use of appliances for writing and keeping accounts. The Association did not undertake to supply any work, it had to be found in the neighbourhood. With the help of the charitable it was considered that this ought not to be difficult; and even if the blind did not entirely earn their own living, the little they could do would be a help so far as it went. Bessie had proved long before this that employment, with the intercourse it brings, is the greatest alleviation to the suffering of many a blind man or woman. During the autumn of 1865 two blind persons in the country were taught trades at their own homes, and also learned to read and write. The cost was not more than £10 for each person, a sum much less than that which has to be provided for those who are sent to London for training. Some day, perhaps, these peripatetic blind instructors may once more be sent out by the Institution, with advantage both to themselves and others. A period of steady quiet work was now before Bessie. Letters, appeals, investigations, and reports filled her time. The Archbishop of York presided at the annual meeting in 1866, and the balance-sheet for that year shows receipts amounting to £7632. She found herself engaged in a large commercial as well as a philanthropic undertaking; and the success of her industrial work began to tell, not only in Great Britain, but in the United States of America. She was much gratified by the report of the Principal of the Pennsylvania Institution for the Instruction of the Blind, 1866, in which the following passage occurs: We are gratified to report the successful working of the literary and musical branches of the Institution, and also the favourable progress of our manufacturing department, in teaching and employing blind persons in useful trades; experience every year confirms the necessity of a house of industry for the regular employment of pupils whose term of instruction has terminated, and of the adult blind. The education of the blind is a simple matter; nor is it susceptible of much improvement in the way of securing their future welfare. The great idea which encourages the establishment and support of all such institutions by the several States is the preparation of the blind for future usefulness and happiness, by self-dependence. Their misfortune unfits them for the large number of industrial and professional pursuits open to the seeing; but there are mechanical arts in which they become good, if not rapid workers. The difficulty with many, especially those without friends and homes, is in securing employment, and in earning fully enough for their support. Without this, the failure, idleness, and demoralisation which too often follow prove how imperfect is their previous instruction in this direction. The "Association for Promoting the General Welfare of the Blind," founded in London by Miss E. Gilbert, is an example of a very practical organisation for the employment of the blind, which has been alluded to in our former reports. It gives work, in various ways, to about 170 adult blind persons, many of whom were previously begging in the streets. The deficiency of their earnings is supplied by annual subscriptions and legacies, the usual sources of support in Great Britain for the benevolent institutions. Such institutions will never be self-sustaining. But the support of an industrial association which enables every blind person to earn 100, 200, or 300 dollars a year, is certainly better than to throw such persons upon the charities of the wayside, or to consign them to pensioned idleness. In the autumn of this year Bessie was at Chichester, and in addition to the difficulty of walking, which she experienced after any time of hard work, she began to discover that vibration from any great or sudden noise affected her painfully. She drove with her father and a sister from Chichester to Kingly Bottom, a vale in the South Downs, for the last day's shooting of the rifle volunteer corps in September 1866. The sharp crack of the rifles tried her greatly, and brought on so much pain that she was glad to accept a seat in the carriage of a friend and go home, instead of waiting, as the Bishop wished to do, for the end of the match. The noise seemed to exhaust her. During the autumn of 1866 Mr. F. Green, who for many years had rendered great service by his work on the Committee, presented to the Association five shares of £100 in the Marine Insurance Company, of which he was a director. They yielded at that time £40 a year, and the gift was a source of much gratification to Bessie. She was at Chichester in December, and wrote thence on the 21st to her widowed sister, Mrs. Elliot, dwelling on the service she could render to others: "Having you must make all the difference," she says, when alluding to a succession of troubles which had fallen upon Lady Minto, with whom Mrs. Elliot was staying. "Really there is not and will not be any lack of work for you. You have had, I should think, quite as much as you could do for some time past.... There is a chance of Tom's coming in January.... I suppose you know all about him and his doings. I can't think how he would have got on without you." Then she gives news from home: I am expecting them in after the ordination every moment. This time it is in the cathedral; twelve candidates I think. Papa came down to breakfast this morning, and was to go in time for the whole service. Only think, one of the priests has been in agonies of toothache all through the examination; but in spite of it Mr. Browne was delighted with all he did. The poor man had two teeth taken out, and happily to-day was flourishing.... I do hope you will like the little paper knife which I am so very glad to send you. I was quite taken with the little bells of the lilies.... Nora to-day is quite in her element and full of work, putting up a number of parcels to send off in different directions.... Ever your loving sister, BESSIE GILBERT. "Tom," of whom she speaks, had recently been appointed Vicar of Heversham, near Milnthorpe; and Mrs. Elliot had visited him at the vicarage, and superintended the domestic arrangements of her bachelor brother. Bessie received no Christmas box which gave her more pleasure than the following poem, which appeared in _Punch_ on the 29th of December: A BOX FOR BLINDMAN'S BUFF. Sit down to eat and drink on this glad day, And blest be he that first cries, "Hold, enough!" Gorge, boys, and girls; and then rise up to play. You _can_. A game in season's Blindman's Buff. The ready fillet round the seamless brow Of youth or maiden while quick fingers bind, Beneath the golden-green pearl-berried bough, What fun it is to play at being blind! But some at Blindman's Buff with eyes unbound Might join, for whom less sport that game would be Because it is their life's continual round: The Blindman's Buff of those that cannot see. If poor, for alms they can but grope about. But Science to their need assistance lends; And "knowledge, at one entrance quite shut out," Puts veritably at their fingers' ends. Thus they who else would starve to labour learn. Does that consideration strike your mind? Their living do you wish that they should earn, Instead of crying "Pity the poor Blind?" Then know there's not a charitable Dun, Subscription seeking at your gate who knocks, That more deserves your bounty than the one Who for the Blind requests a Christmas Box. At Oxford Street's two-hundred-and-tenth door Inquire within about the Blind Man's Friend. Or send your guinea, if you like, or more; As many more as you can spare to send. _Punch, 29th December 1866._ In August 1867 Bessie paid her first visit to the Vicar of Heversham. She writes a "frame" letter from the North to Mrs. Elliot, and sends warm appreciation of her work in the house, and of the "little three-cornered things in the pink room." The "nice woman" was probably a certain Jane Todd, formerly a servant, but at that time settled in a home of her own. Quite an extraordinary friendship sprang up between her and Bessie, and to the end of her life Jane Todd daily offered up special prayers on behalf of her friend the blind lady. There are again ominous allusions to her difficulty in walking. "I walk better here," she says; and again, "I can't tell you how much I enjoy moving more freely." HEVERSHAM, MILNTHORPE, _23d August 1867_. MY DEAR K.--I meant my first frame letter from here to be to you, so now I am beginning it. I have the morning room which you used to have, and enjoy it very much. How nice the house is, and how you must have worked to make it so. Mrs. Argles and Mrs. Braithwaite seem very much impressed with all your hard work. Is it true that those little three-cornered things in the pink room with the china on them were washhand stands? You have made a capital use of them.... I walked up the lower Head yesterday, then stayed there and had some tea brought me, and afterwards walked to the school through all those stiles. After the meeting we came back by the road. I have been able to walk better here, and it is such a pleasure. I can't tell you how much I enjoy moving more freely. Wednesday I walked as far as the house at Levens and back after a rest at a cottage near, where we found a very nice woman who certainly talked Westmoreland, but really with a pretty accent.... Your loving sister, BESSIE. The difficulty in walking, to which she alludes, had again increased; and in 1867 or 1868 she consulted Sir James Paget with regard to it. He thought it proceeded from weak ankles and general debility, and prescribed rest and care. She was at Queen Anne Street in February 1868, and much interested in a public dinner at Chichester at which her father was to be present Dean Hook wrote to give her an account of the proceedings. THE DEANERY, CHICHESTER, _5th February 1868_. MY DEAR MISS GILBERT--I cannot help writing to tell you that the dear good Bishop was yesterday more animated and more eloquent than I ever heard him. He seemed so well and so happy that I am glad he went. It was indeed an ovation to his lordship, as much as to the Mayor; he was so enthusiastically received. As I knew that you were anxious about him, under the notion that he was doing too much, I trouble you with this note. The calm serenity with which he always does his duty, and in performing it does his best, is a very beautiful trait in his character, and I doubt not now that he will get through his visitation duties without suffering too much from fatigue. It is not work, it is worry which tries a man, and all his clergy will exert themselves to save him from worries.--Believe me to be, your affectionate friend, W. F. HOOK. Bessie's own work at this time was mainly the preparation for the annual meeting in May, together with appeals for custom to the secretaries of public institutions. The Lady Superintendent of the Hospital for Sick Children in Great Ormond Street replies that brushes for the Hospital are always purchased at the depot in Euston Road. The Secretary of the Islington Shoe Black Brigade tells her that so far as he can, consistently with the interests of his Society, and as regards the price charged for various articles, he has always given the Society for the Blind as much custom as possible. These are types of innumerable answers; and she went on with this drudgery year after year; every ignoble detail of it glorified by the constant presence of the aim for which she worked. The sufferings of the blind poor were always borne in her heart; the hope of alleviating them was the mainspring of all her actions. Letters, accounts, appeals, petitions, these are all the machinery with which she works. She has learnt the proportion of result to be expected, and is seldom disappointed or disheartened by indifference or coldness. But encouragement and approval from those whom she honours is very helpful to her. At the meeting held on 14th May 1868 Mr. Gladstone, Mr. Fawcett, and Professor Owen were amongst the principal speakers. Mr. Gladstone wrote as follows on the 8th: 11 CARLTON HOUSE TERRACE, S.W., _8th May 1868_. MY DEAR MADAM--If Mr. Levy will kindly call on me at half-past one on the 14th, I will take the instructions and information from him with reference to the meeting. I cannot be quite sure of escape from my duties in the House (which meets on Wednesdays at twelve) but unless necessity keeps me away you may depend upon me.--I remain, very faithfully yours, W. E. GLADSTONE. Miss Gilbert. Mr. Gladstone's speech at that meeting is best described by its effect upon Bessie herself. She writes as follows: PALACE, CHICHESTER, _20th June 1868_. MY DEAR KATE--I have long been wishing to write to you, and, indeed, before the meeting a dictated letter was just begun to you, but there was no time to write it. After the meeting I was only too glad to do anything rather than write letters; any, therefore, which I could avoid I did, and also I wished to wait until I should have time and opportunity to write to you quietly myself. So now you see I have begun. Had it been at any other time I should have liked you to have been present at the meeting. To you I can say without fear of reproof that some of Mr. Gladstone's words often come back upon me with a force and power that seems to kindle new life within me. I long to realise them, that I may more really feel them to be deserved. Professor Owen's was a beautiful speech. I think we shall clear about a hundred and twenty pounds.... From your ever loving sister, BESSIE. CHAPTER XVIII BLIND CHILDREN OF THE POOR "Toutes les bonnes maximes sont dans le monde, on ne manque qu'à les appliquer."--PASCAL, 391. The education of blind children had occupied Bessie's thoughts for many years. So far back as 1863 she had been in communication with Mr. Lonsdale of the National Society, inquiring as to the State aid given to industrial schools, and the conditions under which schools for the blind could be certified so as to secure the benefit of the Acts. She had begun in her usual careful and systematic way by obtaining all the available statistics of existing schools; and now in view of a new and enlarged scheme for the general education of the poor, the time seemed to have arrived for action. She resolved to lay before those in authority the needs of the blind, their number, the possibility of minimising their affliction, and by means of adequate education opening to them avenues of employment and independence. This work engrossed her time and thoughts in 1869 and the early months of 1870. The co-operation of all societies working on behalf of the blind was necessary. It was essential to submit to the ministers of the Crown such reliable evidence as to the number of blind children, and the urgency of their claims, as to make it impossible that they should be overlooked in any adequate system of education for the people. Bessie sent out in the first place a Memorandum to all institutions for the blind in Great Britain, and to several influential and friendly members of Parliament. In this she set forth the step she proposed to take, asked for suggestions, conditions, additions, alterations, or proposed omissions in the petition, of which a copy was enclosed; for information as to presenting it, for support and assistance in the labour involved. She also asked the opinion of those to whom she wrote as to the best method of procedure, whether by petition to Parliament or by a memorial to the Lords of the Privy Council. The replies which she received were very encouraging, and she found that general opinion was in favour of a Memorial. The document was prepared, and copies of it were submitted for approval, together with a circular letter. A private letter written by Bessie herself to the authorities, and to all influential friends, accompanied the printed documents. She sent these papers to the Oxford Street shop to be folded and addressed, and as an example of her minute care, the following episode is of interest. Amongst her papers there is the copy of instructions sent to Oxford Street, after she had inspected the circulars. She writes that the titles of institutions must be copied from the list she had previously furnished, that full titles must be used in the Memorials to institutions and to private individuals, and that abbreviations are only admissible on the envelopes. She gives instructions for writing out afresh all those memorials in which she had found the titles to be abbreviated. These preliminaries occupied the early months of 1869. The Memorial was completed and sent up in July, and Lord de Grey promised to receive a Deputation in support of it. Bessie drew up a list of the names of those members of Parliament and influential members of her own and of kindred institutions who should be invited to form the Deputation. All arrangements being made, the Deputation met at the Westminster Palace Hotel, on the 10th of February 1870, and proceeded thence to the Education Office. Bessie, with other ladies, remained at the hotel, and subsequently received a report of the proceedings. Earl de Grey and Ripon, Lord President of the Privy Council, with whom was Mr. Forster, received the Deputation. The representatives of twenty-nine institutions for the blind were present, and also Lord Houghton, Lord Manvers, Dean Hook, Sir James Hamilton, Admiral Ryder, Admiral Sotheby, General J. Graham, and the following members of Parliament: Messrs. D. M'Laren', Beresford Hope, H. Woods, W. J. Mitford, W. D. Murphy, F. Wheelhouse, Sir J. Anson, and Lt.-Colonel Gray. Lord Houghton introduced the Deputation, and said they desired to impress on Lord de Grey the advisability of giving all possible consideration to the Memorial presented by Miss Gilbert in the previous July, praying that a large number of Her Majesty's subjects who, at birth or afterwards, were deprived of sight, should have a fair share of protection and interest in any measure of general education which might be designed by the Government. It was most desirable that a class which was so helpless should receive the best consideration which could be given to their condition. Dean Hook spoke in support of the object of the Deputation, and many of the members of Parliament and others who were present gave information as to the condition of the blind in different parts of the country. Lord de Grey asked several questions as to the instruction which the blind received, and said he would carefully consider the representations made to him by so important and influential a Deputation. He said there were many points connected with institutions for the blind which placed them in a different category from the elementary schools which it was the object of the parliamentary grant to aid. Other questions were involved, and other institutions might put forth claims, as, for example, those for the deaf and dumb. It would be the duty of the Council to weigh most seriously the practicability of the Memorial, and he assured the Deputation that they had the utmost sympathy of Mr. Forster and himself. Upon this Lord Houghton thanked Lord de Grey for his courtesy, and the Deputation withdrew. There was no immediate action as the result of the labour of a whole year, and probably no special action on behalf of a class, however afflicted, can be expected from the Government of a country. But Bessie's work was not unproductive. She tried to show, and succeeded in showing, that the blind need not be separated and isolated. Her own example and her own life demonstrated this, and pleaded more powerfully than words could do. If the time ever comes when blind children are duly provided for in our schools, and blind men and women in our workshops, it will be chiefly owing to the lifelong endeavours of Bessie Gilbert, and to her unfaltering and earnest devotion to a cause that she thought worthy of living for and, if need be, of dying for. The condition of her own health had now become very serious. After the Memorial had been sent in and before the Deputation was received Bessie was so exhausted, and movement had become so difficult and painful, that Dr. Little was consulted on her behalf. He pronounced the spine to be in fault, ordered a mechanical support, tonics, regular exercise, much rest in a recumbent position, and recommended Folkstone and sea air for some months. Bessie followed his directions most obediently. She was very brave in bearing the discomfort and oftentimes the pain of the cumbersome "support." She persevered in walking for an hour daily according to his orders, dragging herself along with great difficulty, and getting so heated and overtired that the sister who accompanied her thought the walk did more harm than good. But she had been told to do it, and with the old submission to authority she did it. Her faithful attendant, Charlotte Gadney, was also with her at Folkstone from the end of July to October. She spent much time out of doors, on the Lees, in a bath chair. By the autumn she and those with her were convinced that, in spite of rest and care, she could not walk so well as she had done in the spring. There was much reading aloud, for she was compelled to allow herself more time than usual for relaxation. The sisters especially remember her enjoyment of George MacDonald's _Robert Falconer_. In later times, if any one spoke of violins or violinists, she would say "Ah, do you remember _My Beautiful Lady_?" She heard parts of _Sir Gibbie_ also; and said of _Janet_, "She realises most fully the truth that we are indeed all members one of another." There were several pleasant days to stand out in after years as associated with the months spent at Folkstone. One of these was a day at Saltwood with Canon and Mrs. Erskine Knollys. Bessie drove there, and then the Canon himself wheeled her in an arm-chair to the American Garden. Even in late autumn this was very beautiful, and she enjoyed the description of it. An afternoon at Cheriton with Mr. and Mrs. Knatchbull-Hugessen was also a great pleasure to her. At this time riding in a carriage was not only no fatigue, but she was able to enjoy long drives and all that they brought within her reach. She returned to Chichester and London in somewhat better health, and resumed work on behalf of the Deputation. Whilst she was at Folkstone her time was chiefly occupied in writing letters, and in reply to one of her petitions she heard from General Knollys that "it would afford the Prince of Wales much satisfaction to be placed on the list of Vice-Patrons of the Society in aid of the Blind;" and also "that H. R. H. had been pleased to direct him to enclose a cheque for twenty-five guineas in aid of the funds of the Society." The following letter, which she received at this time from Pennsylvania, interested her: TO MISS GILBERT. NO. 1040 PENN STREET, READING, PENNSYLVANIA, U.S.A., _13th September 1869_. I take the liberty of addressing you as one who has taken so philanthropic an interest in the blind. About the mid-winter of '62-3 I was travelling in Idaho Territory, and, owing to the severe effects of the "glare" produced by the sun's rays upon the snow, my sight received so severe a shock that I became temporarily blind. Afterwards I partially recovered my sight; but through the want of skill in my medical attendant and general improper treatment, the optic nerve became entirely and, as I fear, hopelessly paralysed. I am now completely deprived of sight. Being thus, unfortunately, among those with whom you so greatly sympathise, I too, losing in my full-grown manhood, this perhaps most benign of the Great Father's gifts to poor humanity, feel a strong personal interest in my fellow-sufferers. Understanding then that you have successfully established an "Association for the General Welfare of the Blind," in which each occupant is finally paid for his labour, in contradistinction to the usual plan of blind asylums, where there is no remuneration, except what education may afford, I purpose attempting a similar enterprise. Will I therefore be taxing your kindness too much in asking you to forward to me to this place (as headed) the last report of your noble institution, and, if not contained therein, such instructions as will enable me to establish such institution in this country? And praying that the Good God may prosper you in your benevolent designs, I remain, with the greatest respect, your obt. servt., THEODORE B. VACHE. A bright letter to the present writer shows Bessie in a playful mood. It was written after her return from Folkstone, and when health and spirits were much better than they had been in July. But locomotion had become very difficult; and it was painful to witness her laboured efforts to move and walk, and the difficulty she experienced in getting into or out of a cab or carriage. THE PALACE, CHICHESTER, _October 1869_. MY DEAR F.--I hope you will soon receive another polling paper. I suppose you did not pay your subscription last year, and so paid for two years in one. If I were as clever as Mr. Lowe perhaps I should contrive to squeeze a little more out of our subscribers, and make them all the while feel that it was the most natural thing in the world that they should make double payments. This is the way to do business, is it not? Double payments, bringing about double receipts; very nice thing, you know, for the receivers; and as to the other side of the question, why, you know, we needn't look too closely into that. You see many persons are quite unable to look at more than one side of a question, so that limited views have their advantages. Does Mr. Lowe think so? Well, I should hope very much to see you and Miss B. on Thursday, and if you can't have me, please just write to 210 Oxford Street and say so, and then I will tell you where to come. I don't know yet where I shall be, but very probably at Miss R.'s at 117 Gloster Terrace. Love to Miss B. From yours affectionately, E. GILBERT. At this time Bessie was warmly interested in, and very hopeful as to the results of, Mr. Gladstone's efforts on behalf of Ireland, and referred frequently to the subject. In the following letter to her sister, Mrs. Elliot, there is a mention of orders for work. She was unable on account of the state of her health to write as much as usual, and therefore gave more time to knitting vests and muffetees, and making watch chains. The money received for them went to her "work-bag," and helped to relieve the necessities of deserving blind people: THE PALACE, CHICHESTER, _23d December 1869_. MY DEAR KATE--I send you my loving Christmas greetings with some of the home violets to sweeten them withal. It was very tantalising seeing you, or rather not seeing you, like that in London. I was so glad you thought I moved better. I do, and it is such a comfort I can't tell you. Still I find a difference directly if I get too much tired. I had hoped to have had some muffetees ready for you, but must do them afterwards, as I have had to knit two under-vests as an order, and have not yet finished the second. You cannot think how wonderfully well papa got through the ordination. Dr. Heurtley, who presided, was quite astonished. Only think of it, H. is coming on Monday for a week. I am so very glad of it. No time for more, your loving sister, BESSIE GILBERT. Bishop Gilbert's health had slowly but very steadily declined after the death of his wife in 1863. He was surrounded by the loving care of daughters devoted to him. But the loss of the friend and partner of his whole life was one from which he never recovered. Bessie was the only member of the family not keenly alive to the failure of her father's health. Partly, no doubt, owing to her blindness, and partly to the effort that the Bishop always made to be bright and cheerful in the society of his "dear child Bessie," she did not perceive how seriously the burden of work and responsibility told upon him. The sisters at home were glad to spare her the anxiety which they felt, and she passed the Christmas time of 1869-70 without alarm and without that sense of impending loss which was weighing heavily upon others. When at last the blow came it fell suddenly, and fell heavily upon her, and was not softened by any sense of relief that the burden of his life was removed. She had gone to London for the Deputation to Lord de Grey on the 10th of February 1870, and was still there when she was summoned to Chichester by telegram on Sunday the 20th. The sisters at home had been conscious for some days of a greater sense of uneasiness than usual, but there was nothing definite to take hold of. The Bishop came down as usual to the dining-room on Friday the 18th. On Saturday the 19th he kept his room for the early part of the day, and dined in the morning-room, that room adjoining his own in which Bessie used to spend so much time with her mother when first they went to Chichester. The absent sons and daughters were informed of this failure of strength on Saturday morning, but there were no alarming symptoms until the evening. Then and on the following morning, Sunday the 20th, telegrams summoned them to Chichester without delay. Bessie reached the palace about 10 P.M. on Sunday. Her father recognised her, but he was by that time too weak to speak. There were no last words, and he sank peacefully to his rest, dying at 5 A.M. on Monday, 21st February 1870. Bessie had left home without even a suspicion that she might be recalled by a sudden summons, and now it seemed to her impossible that her father's death should precede her own, and that a loss that she had not dared even to think of, should have fallen upon her. She was stunned by the blow, but she bore it with characteristic and Christian courage, patience, and submission. CHAPTER XIX IN TIME OF NEED "The grave is heaven's golden gate, And rich and poor around it wait."--BLAKE. It was deemed undesirable for Bessie to remain at Chichester during the sad week that followed the death of her father. She went to her elder sister, Mary, the beloved Mary of her youth, now the mother of a family and head of a large household. She wrote with her own hand a short note to one of the sisters at the palace, which reassured them as to her condition. MILTON HILL, _28th March 1870_. MY DEAR SARAH--Thank you for all your letters. As you say, all the preparations must be painful, but I am very thankful to hear you and Nora are pretty well. You know without my telling you so, how very much you are in my thoughts. I hope to come back Tuesday or Wednesday, but Mary wants me to stay. Is it so, that we need not go till after Easter? I should like to know, because of what I may have to do about my own things. I think the appointment seems very good. As for me I am rather better to-day, having slept better two nights; but it is difficult to me as yet to do things, I have so little energy or interest in anything. I will write again about my coming. Mary is really pretty well I think, the last day or two have been much pleasanter. Love to you all from your loving sister BESSIE. She returned to the palace but did not stay long, and spent the greater part of the two months of preparation for leaving Chichester with her sister, Mrs. Woods. She went, however, to her old home in April, and left it finally with her brother and two unmarried sisters on the 21st of April 1870. Loving words greeted them on the day of their departure. "Wherever we are," wrote one of the sisters, "we shall all know that we are thinking of each other." The house in Queen Anne Street was let at this time; two sisters went to St. Leonards, but Bessie, with her faithful maid, took the much shorter and easier journey to Slinfold Rectory, near Horsham, the home of her sister Lucy, Mrs. Sutton. She was sad and in very feeble health. All the future seemed dark and uncertain; she could make no plans, she could not look forward. At such a time the tender and loving care of Mr. and Mrs. Sutton were very precious to her. Insensibly, almost unconsciously, she was helped by the numerous children around her. Living in their midst she learnt to know them intimately, and they cheered her and amused her. The little boys had quaint ways and odd sayings, and they made her forget herself and listen to them and wonder at them. The eldest girl, also a Lucy, had always been a pet, and now became very dear to her. From Slinfold she went to her sister Fanny, Mrs. Casson, at Torquay, and there found another kind brother-in-law, another large family of nephews and nieces, all ready to love and to wait upon the dear "Aunt Bessie." Four homes, in all of which she was a welcome and honoured guest, were thus open to her. Hitherto her time had been divided between London and Chichester. She had not allowed herself the luxury of visits to married sisters, and had only seen them and their children on the occasion of their visits to the palace or London. Now she began to be intimate with them, to be interested in the character and dispositions of the young people, and to enjoy the family life of which one and all helped to make her feel she was a member. Meantime old and dear friends gathered around her and sought to comfort and encourage her. She preserved many letters which she prized and had found helpful. One of the first to speak was the Rev. H. Browne, who held the living of Pevensey. He was one of the Bishop's chaplains, the author of _Ordo Sæclorum_, a student of German theology, and, that which most attracted Bessie, he was a very good reader, and at Chichester had often read aloud Shakespere's plays to the _sisterhood_. Mr. Browne now was the first to strike a note to which she could respond: He rests from his labours and his works do follow him. Yours remain. It is needless for me to say it, for you must all know it better than I, he counted it among his mercies that a work had been raised up for you, which when father and mother were gone would be to you the work and the blessing of your life. He evidently acknowledged this as God's calling to you, and as one of the thoughts in which he was greatly comforted in looking forward upon your future life. Many other writers dwelt upon the unsparing labour and self-denying zeal of her father, and all recognised that she, the daughter so near his heart and always the object of his most tender love and watchful care, must be the one most deeply stricken by the pain of separation. "To you, I imagine, the blow will come heaviest," wrote Mrs. Powell; and this sentiment is repeated in almost every letter. A letter from the Secretary of her own Association, informing her of a vote of condolence passed by the Committee, begins, oddly enough, with "I have the _pleasure_ to inform you," The blind workmen and workwomen did their best to express their regret at the death of "his lordship the Bishop," and a note is enclosed to her by the Rev. B. Hayley, written by a poor fellow in the Chichester Union, "just to show what the poor, the very poorest in the diocese, think of your dear father." The Rev. Dr. Swainson, Canon of Chichester, now Master of Christ's College, Cambridge, heard that Bessie's grief was heightened by the fact that she had spent the last fortnight before her father's death in London, engrossed by the work of the Deputation to Lord de Grey. His letter of sympathy and consolation may be as helpful to others as it was to her, and it is therefore inserted unabridged. SPRINGFIELD, NEWNHAM, CAMBRIDGE, _30th March 1870_. MY DEAR MISS GILBERT--I hope you will permit me to write you a few lines on the subject which I hear from many quarters has caused you much additional sorrow in regard to the death of our dear father in God. I mean your absence from Chichester during the last fortnight of his life. I really do not know that you should regret it: because it was really of God's appointment: you were engaged over your work for Him: your sisters over their work for Him: your dear father over his work for Him: each and all to the best of your powers, and why should you repine if it pleased God to remove him so quietly, so gently, so lovingly, without telling you beforehand that He was going thus to take him? May you not rejoice rather that his last days of consciousness were filled with thoughts that you were able to go on with that work in which he took so deep an interest, that some have thought that the best memorial of the love of the diocese to him would be an effort to strengthen your hands in that work? Of course I have often thought of the way in which my dearest father and dearest mother were taken away from me. I was absent from both: but I could not regret my absence. Mrs. Swainson was present at the removal of both her parents: but was not all this of God's appointment? When we ask Him to guide us day by day, may we not leave it to Him how He guides us? I am sure you will excuse me writing thus: the loss is indescribable, the centre of your earthly affections removed: on this I need not speak. But I feel sure that you need not and you should not take any blame to yourself, because your work carried you away at the time when God, who so arranged it, was pleased to call your father home.--Believe me to be, my dear Miss Gilbert, ever yours very truly, C. A. SWAINSON. The Bishop of Rochester wrote, "His course, ever since he has been a bishop, has been so straightforward, so true, that he has won everybody's admiration and respect." These and other tributes Bessie preserved and treasured. They helped her, and after a time they comforted her. In May we have one of the first letters written by her own hand, and speaking of her own feelings. It is addressed to a dear friend of the early Oxford days. SLINFOLD RECTORY, HORSHAM, _1st May 1870_. MY DEAR MRS. BURROWES--I was very grateful for your most kind affectionate letter, although I have not written to tell you so. For some time I really could hardly do anything. No loss in the world could be what this loss is to me. I am always wanting him, always missing him, still I am now better able to feel the blessedness for him, and also better able to think of his being spared suffering and infirmity, which would probably have increased; and yet in spite of all this I often cannot help feeling how my heart would rebound with life if I could know that he could be here again with us. But I long for the hope of being with him to grow stronger and stronger, so that it may be more and more a living power within me, and a real comfort. I am much better and stronger than I was; but cannot say much for my powers of walking. I cannot say that I take much interest in things yet, and am often oppressed with a feeling of the dreary length of the days without seeing him or hearing anything about him; but as you so kindly say in your letter I shall hope, when able to do so, to work better than I have done if God will grant me help to strengthen me for this work. I did go up from hence to London for the day for our May Committee, and am very glad I did so, and made a beginning of taking up the work again. I have also done a little towards it in other ways, but just now my own nice maid is having a little holiday, and instead Mrs. Gadney is with me; she cannot write much, while I am not up to much business yet. Lucy, I am sure, would send you her love, but I am writing in my room. She would have written to you, but that I said I would do so myself, as I had intended for some time to write and thank you for your very affectionate letter.... Believe me, my dear Mrs. Burrowes, yours affectionately, BESSIE GILBERT. Miss Mackenzie, sister of Bishop Mackenzie, wrote: I shall never forget his kind fatherliness and his beautiful courtesy and his loving thoughtfulness for every one. What a comfort it is to have all that to look back upon, but now whilst it is all so fresh your hearts must bleed. Dear Bessie, I am so thankful you have your work, your calling, your vocation to attend to, and in trying to alleviate the troubles of others, as you have always done, you will find the best relief to your own sorrow. The letters from those she loved, whilst full of sympathy, also dwelt upon the call and claim of duty, in the fulfilment of which Bessie could alone find peace. She struggled bravely to respond, but the task before her was more difficult than any that she had yet accomplished; and there was no renewal of physical power, even when she began to recover from the shock of her great sorrow. She paid many visits with her sisters, and returned to Queen Anne Street in August 1871. The change in her health was at that time painfully evident to her friends in London. She moved slowly, with difficulty, and was easily exhausted by slight fatigue. Still she resumed her work for the blind, as we find by a letter from the Dean of Westminster [Dean Stanley] written on the 22d of June 1871. He informs her that he will have much pleasure in acceding to her request to preach on behalf of the Association for the Blind on Sunday morning, 23d July, at Whitehall. In reply to an appeal to Mr. Ruskin, made somewhat later, she received the following characteristic answer: DENMARK HILL, S.E., _2d September 1871_. MADAM--I am obliged by your letter, and I deeply sympathise with all the objects of the Institution over which you preside. But one of my main principles of work is that every one must do their best and spend their all in their own work, and mine is with a much lower race of sufferers than you plead for--with those who "have eyes and see not."--I am, madam, your faithful servant, J. RUSKIN. The Lady President of the Association for Promoting the Welfare of the Blind. In the autumn of 1871 Bessie joined a great gathering of the Gilbert family at Heversham for the celebration of the marriage of the rector, their youngest brother, the "Tom" of early days. She returned to spend a few months only in Queen Anne Street, for she and two sisters had taken a house in Stanhope Place, Hyde Park, which was to be their future home. The Queen Anne Street house was associated in many ways with Bessie's life and work in London, with the visits to her of the blind workpeople, with the early days of the Association, with the growth and development of the objects that had engrossed her life. Perhaps it was dearer to her than either the Oxford or the Chichester home. Certainly the wrench of separation was more painful than any previous one had been; and she had less hope and energy for the unknown future that was before her. When the change of house had been accomplished she paid a visit to Mrs. Bowles, at Milton Hill, but this did little to restore her exhausted energy. During May and June 1872 there was a marked deterioration in her condition; she walked with greater difficulty, could not rise from a chair without assistance, and before the end of June had to be carried up and down stairs. She went to church for the last time early in June, driving to All Saints, Norfolk Square, and walking home. Greatly alarmed at her condition, the family now turned in many directions for the help and advice of eminent medical men. Sir William Jenner took perhaps the most hopeful view. He thought it not impossible that the nerves of motion might regain power, and prescribed in the meantime "the life of a cabbage." Dr. Little was never sanguine. Dr. Hughlings Jackson and Dr. Hawkesley held out but little hope of improvement. All agreed that she must rest, vegetate, lead the life of an invalid. When the prospect of the future really dawned upon her, who can wonder that she found submission, acquiescence, exceedingly hard. "My whole being revolts at the very idea," she said one day. On another occasion, with a part humorous, part pathetic expression, she exclaimed, "The change is great and," after a pause, "not pleasant." But in later years, after long and patient suffering, she was able to say, "Many have a heavier cross." She announced by letter to the present writer the verdict of her physicians, adding the pathetic words, "Love me to the end." CHAPTER XX THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW "By two wings a man is raised above the earth, namely by Simplicity and Purity."--THOMAS À KEMPIS. There was still much within Bessie's power; and in tracing her work at this period we find little diminution in her correspondence. She received letters almost daily from Colonel Fyers on the business of the Institution. Levy wrote frequently and fully to her. She had given him great assistance in writing a book on _Blindness and the Blind_, and her own notes were made over to him. A letter which she received in March 1872 is interesting as a description of preparations made by a blind man, Levy, carried out by a blind carpenter, Farrow, and related to the blind lady, Miss Gilbert. The occasion was the Thanksgiving for the Restoration of the Prince of Wales in February 1872, when the streets were gay with decorations and every window full of spectators. No house showed more bravely than the Institution for Promoting the Welfare of the Blind in Oxford Street; subscribers and their friends, the Committee and their friends, filled every window, and the blind were keenly alive to all that was going on around them, and to the distinction of the Prince's plume and gas jets and the letters V.R., "each about four feet long in gold paper." "The decorations," writes Levy, "consisted of a Union Jack flag at the top of the house, and about half way up a crown and Prince's plume, made of gold paper, projecting from the wall, and the letters V.R., each about four feet long and two feet broad, made in thick rossets in silver paper on crimson ground, also projecting some distance from the wall, a wreath of flowers extended from the house to the post at the curb of the pavement, the lamp of which contained a transparency. "At night the illumination consisted of a Prince's plume in gas jets, which we bought for three pounds ten instead of hiring a similar one for ten pounds; the wood used for seats will be made into housemaids' boxes, etc. and the American cloth with which they were covered made available for dress baskets. "I think if you give five pounds it will be enough, as ten pounds will cover the whole expense. The goods and glass cases were taken out of the shop windows and three rows of seats, which gradually receded and increased in height, were formed. The same kind of seats were in the Committee room and the apartments above, out of which the windows were taken. A rail was put to keep people from going on to the balcony, as it was not safe; tables with wine and biscuits were placed, and Mr. Osmond had something more substantial in his rooms, with which Mr. Reid and others were well pleased." On the 1st April 1872 the Rev. Frederick Denison Maurice died. Bessie had been but slightly acquainted with him, but he was the brother of her old and dear friends, Mrs. Powell and Mrs. Julius Hare. She had been less startled by his written and spoken words than many of those in her own circle, and on his death she recognised that a great power had gone from amongst us, and sincerely mourned his loss. She worked as usual at the arrangements for the annual meeting in 1872, and on the 22d June the Archbishop of York, who presided, wrote to tell her of its success. _22d June 1872._ MY DEAR MISS GILBERT--I attended the meeting and made my short speech. There never was a nicer meeting, the speakers were full of gratitude to you for all you had done. We could have had twice the number of speakers if we had wanted them. I hope, my dear Miss Gilbert, that God will strengthen you and enable you to carry on for many years your excellent Association.--Ever with much regard, yours truly, W. EBOR. The Princess Edward of Saxe-Weimar, sister of the Duke of Richmond, conveyed a request from Bessie to the Duke and Duchess of Teck, whose interest she hoped to enlist for the annual meeting of 1872. They were abroad in the spring, but the Duke returned in time to preside at the June meeting. Bessie never dropped any of the links in her chain, and her early life at Chichester had given her many valuable allies. In her long days of enforced inactivity she would recall to mind visits to Goodwood, to Arundel, interest expressed and shown in the objects she had at heart, and would redouble her efforts to raise up friends for the blind. Meantime there was a steady deterioration in her own physical condition. The malady which had been making insidious progress for so long was degeneration of the spinal cord. The disease is one that generally owes its origin to accident or injury, but so far as could be ascertained Bessie had never met with either. The physicians who attended her throughout the last years of her life inclined to the view that the poison in the blood left by scarlet fever was the cause not only of the condition of the throat, from which she suffered throughout her whole life (it will be remembered that she could only drink in sips), but also of this degeneration of the spinal cord. Looking back, the members of her family recalled to mind that her powers of motion had not for many years been free and unimpeded. The significant entries in diary and letters, as to her moving and walking better, will not be forgotten. But the true cause of this had not been suspected, except by Dr. Little; for mischief to the spinal cord may be carried very far before there is any outward sign to manifest it. The power of motion and merely animal functions are affected by it; but intelligence remains alert and the brain power unaffected. The symptoms which accompany it are at first attributed to weakness, overwork, physical fatigue, any of which would be sufficient to account for them before the disease has reached the stage in which its true nature is unmistakably revealed. Mental trouble will often accelerate the progress of this malady, and occasion its more rapid development. This cause had also been at work. The death of her father in 1870 was sudden and most unexpected to Bessie. The subsequent giving up of the two homes, at Chichester and in London, which long years had endeared to her; the necessity of planting herself in and learning to accommodate herself to a new house, with all the old familiar landmarks swept away--all these things were sources of suffering to one of her delicate nervous organisation; and doubtless they gave an added impetus to the progress of disease. She met her troubles with great courage; she bore them with unmurmuring patience; but they produced their inevitable result, and flung her aside when the storm was over as a weed is cast up by an angry sea. There were a few months during which various remedies were suggested and tried, but all unsuccessfully. The two sisters, who henceforward devoted their whole life to her, now took it in turns to sleep on a sofa in her room, so as to help her to move and turn in bed during the night. But when she realised that loss of power was not a phase but one of the conditions of her illness, she would not allow them to do this, saying she must have them "fresh for the daytime." A sick nurse was engaged, and, with Charlotte Gadney, ministered to her. For a little time she was able occasionally to be taken into Hyde Park in an easy bath chair and always recumbent, but she could only bear the vibration of the movement for a very short distance. When she reached the park she would remain for some hours enjoying the air. Quiet and fresh air (two things that London cannot give) seemed more and more essential; and in August 1872 her sister Mary (Mrs. Bowles) wrote to propose that she should pay a long visit to Milton Hill, in Berkshire. Her doctors warmly approved of the proposal, if only she could bear the journey; and Mr. Bowles, to whom she was warmly attached, busied himself with preparations for her comfort. After many anxious inquiries and careful arrangements, it was settled that, accompanied by her sister Sarah, she should undertake the journey in an invalid carriage, "by road and rail," being lifted in at her own door and lifted out at Milton Hill. This was done; but the railway officials attached the carriage to the end of an express train; the oscillation and vibration were insupportable, and she reached Milton Hill almost unconscious from pain and fatigue. In the hope of lessening her suffering she had been held in the nurse's arms all the latter part of the railway journey; but even this could do little to diminish the agony she endured. She was carried to bed as soon as she reached Milton Hill, and after some days of complete rest she began to rally. It was then a great pleasure to her to note all that had been done by the "best and kindest brother-in-law that any one ever had." "Did you ever know such a brother-in-law!" she used to say. Rooms for her and her servants had been arranged on the ground floor, with easy access to the beautiful garden and grounds. She arrived in August, and as soon as she had somewhat recovered, she was carried every day that the weather allowed, to a tent that had been put up in a pleasant part of the garden. She enjoyed being read aloud to; she had great delight in her nephews and nieces; but most of all she appreciated the opportunity of uninterrupted intercourse with her sister. They were again the "Mary and Bessie" of youthful days; not friends learning to know and love each other, but sisters with a wealth of buried recollections to be brought out to the light of day; interests, tastes, and affections in common; only a spark, an electric flash of memory, needed to illuminate the whole. No wonder that the time passed happily, and "life between four walls" dawned upon the sufferer, not without promise of alleviation. For, in spite of the hours spent in the tent, it was practically already life within four walls. All thought of work or occupation outside her own home had to be abandoned; she must keep only that which she could guide and control from the sick-room. "I feel like a train which has been left upon a siding," she used to say. Throughout the winter of 1872-73 she gave all the strength and time at her disposal to the interests and occupations of the blind. A fresh anxiety troubled her. Levy's health was failing seriously, and several members of the Committee wished him to take a long leave of absence. The work connected with his book, added to his ordinary duties as manager of the Association, had exhausted his strength. Bessie received letters from friends on the Committee telling her that Levy must have rest, and from Levy saying it was impossible for him to take it during her absence. The year 1873 was passing on with this, which seemed a heavy cloud, hanging over her, when suddenly a storm burst, which swept away all other anxiety in the one engrossing sorrow which it brought. After less than a week's illness her beloved sister Mary, Mrs. Bowles, died on 20th October at Milton Hill. Bessie was in the same house, but was too ill to be taken to her sister's room; and they never met after the day on which Mrs. Bowles was attacked by a fatal malady. Bessie's sick-nurse, and an old and faithful servant of the Gilbert family, who happened to be staying at Milton Hill, were unremitting in their attention to Mrs. Bowles; and from them Bessie heard of the variations in her condition almost from hour to hour. When all was over Bessie, in her weak condition, was crushed and exhausted. She seemed unable to endure the shock of this sudden blow, and at first could only lie and moan, "Oh, why was she taken and I left?" Archdeacon Atkinson, a near neighbour and old friend of her sister's, did his best to soothe and comfort her. The grief of Mr. Bowles and the children roused her. She saw how much they needed help, and before long she was the old brave Bessie, full of thought for the sorrow of others, and engrossed by her endeavours to console and comfort them. Before the death of Mrs. Bowles it had been arranged that Bessie should spend the winter at Torquay. This plan was adhered to; and in November 1873, travelling in one of the railway companies invalid carriages, she bore the journey fairly well, and reached Torquay without the terrible suffering caused by her previous journey. She had bright and sunny rooms in Sulyarde Terrace, and on fine days she was still able to spend a few hours out of doors, reclining in an invalid chair; sometimes also she could sit up in her chair for an hour or two, and at this time, when her food was duly prepared, she was still able to feed herself. Her sister Lucy, Mrs. Casson, with husband and many children, resided at Torquay; and she found here, also, a kind brother-in-law, unremitting in his attentions, and numerous young nephews and nieces, whom she knew and loved. In January 1874 Levy died. Father, mother, and sister; house and home and health had been taken from Bessie; and now the faithful servant and friend of her whole life followed. She had put great constraint upon herself at the time of her sister's illness and death, but she was powerless against this blow. Deep depression settled down upon her, which took the form of constant self-reproach. She, the most unselfish and considerate of women, was given over, as it were, to an avenging spirit, which upbraided her with faults never committed, and exacted expiation for imaginary crimes of selfishness and self-seeking. Such dark passages may be borne in mind by other sufferers, tortured with self-questionings and doubt. The first thing to rouse her was the desire to say some words to the blind men and women on whose behalf Mr. Levy had worked for so many years. As soon as she had somewhat recovered, she wrote perhaps the most touching record we have of her work, her hope, her sorrow, and her submission. 2 SULYARDE TERRACE, TORQUAY, _10th February 1874_. MY DEAR FRIENDS--I feel that both you and I have had a very great loss indeed, and my heart yearns to say to you that you do not know how grieved I am for you; you know full well what the loss is to yourselves, but you can hardly tell what it is to me; you cannot know how he who is now taken and I have worked together with the self-same end of helping you, and now I am left, deprived of all the help that your dear and true friend gave me, and it is impossible for me to tell you how deeply I feel the loss. Mr. Levy never spared himself when your interest was at stake, and now that he is taken from us, and I am left alone, I feel that I must ask you all to give me all the help in your power, and you can help me by giving me your confidence, by showing me that you feel I will do the best I can for you, and, above all, by trying, with God's help, to become the men and women He would have you to be. Nothing gives me greater joy than for the Association to be the means of helping you, by God's blessing, to lead really Christian lives. This means that you should have in your hearts the love of God and the love of your neighbour, which love will prevent you hurting anybody by word or deed, make you true and just in all your dealings, and temperate and sober in your living. My earnest desire is that the Association should help you to learn and labour truly to get your own living; but you know that this must be a work of time. If I could prevent it there should not be one blind person begging, but all should have the blessing of earning their living; but, as I say, it will take a long time to bring this to pass. Had I been asked I should have said, "You would do better without me than without him who is taken from us; but God does not ask us, and does what He sees and knows to be best, and He has taken Mr. Levy to his rest and reward, and has left me." If it is His will that I should have strength, I will, with His help and with the aid of the friends engaged in the work, do the best I can. Many of you I have never seen; I wish this were not so, but I cannot help it; but to you all I earnestly say: please think of me as of one who has your truest interest at heart, who is, like yourselves, without sight, and who tries, to the best of her power, to understand what it is to be poor as well as blind, and who longs for your help and co-operation in the work of endeavouring to help you to help yourselves. You will help me, will you not?--Believe me, my dear friends, to be most sincerely yours, ELIZABETH GILBERT. _P.S._--I have signed my name with the pen which Mr. Levy invented for us. You and I must pray that God will help me to do what will be best for you. I know God will not leave us, for He loveth the blind, as He doth all human beings, more than we can possibly understand or know, so that we must try and trust in Him fully in all our trials. May God bless you all! With advancing spring the cloud of depression was dispelled. She became more cheerful, began to talk of a return to London, and to look forward to her life there. The return journey was undertaken in the second week in June. It was safely accomplished, though at the cost of very great weariness and exhaustion. When she reached Stanhope Place and had been carried to her room, she said, "No more journeys for me." This was indeed her last journey, for though in 1877 she had such a longing for fresh country air that there was a consultation, and her physicians sanctioned removal, yet when the time came her heart failed, and she remained at home. On her return from Torquay she went into Hyde Park about half a dozen times in an invalid chair, but after October 1874 she left the house no more. She was, however, still able for a time to be dressed, to sit up for an hour or two, and to be carried up and down stairs. As the winter advanced a sitting-room was arranged on the same floor as her bedroom, and then she came downstairs daily no more. In spite of all precautions against cold she had a severe attack of bronchitis in 1875, and was attended by Dr. Hawkesley, whom she knew and liked as a fellow-worker on the Council of the Normal College for the Blind. He was struck by the manner in which she threw off the attack. "She is doing so gallantly," he said. But she did not regain the strength lost during this illness, and resumed life after every access of sorrow and suffering on a lower level, as it were, and with diminished vital powers. After the spring of 1875 she was not dressed again, and never sat up. Recumbent on one of Alderman's couches, in a pretty dressing-gown, with soft warm shawls, and lace, and bright colour, such as she loved, about her, she spent her good days. On the bad ones she was not lifted from her bed. She had indeed become like a train that is left upon a siding, and all her busy life was hushed and silent. When the summer came, and her rooms were to be repapered and painted, she was carried downstairs. The drawing-rooms were specially prepared as her bed and sitting-rooms, and she would stay in these her "country quarters" for six weeks or two months. After that she was taken upstairs in the same way for the autumn, winter, and spring. This removal required great care and very skilful management, as the couch on which she reclined had to be lifted over the bannisters, and any jerk or unexpected movement caused both pain and apprehension. A fresh sorrow awaited her. In 1876 Charlotte Gadney, her faithful and affectionate attendant, had a paralytic seizure, and it was necessary for the sake both of mistress and maid that they should part. Bessie could not at first acquiesce in separation; she reproached herself as the cause of Charlotte's illness, and could not rest until she was informed of all the minutest details connected with her. But when the parting was over Bessie's anxiety gradually diminished, and Charlotte's recovery was more rapid than had been expected. She was never well enough to resume attendance upon her beloved mistress, but from time to time she came on a short visit, much to her own and Bessie's delight. Meanwhile the Association struggled on under the care of successive managers. Levy's illness and frequent absence had caused confusion, irregularity, and loss, which his successors were not slow to take advantage of. They found it easy to persevere in defects occasioned by his failing health and want of sight; but the untiring devotion to the cause of the blind, and unwearied efforts on their behalf, which had made these defects of comparatively small importance, were lost to the Association for ever. Bessie knew and lamented the shortcomings, but she could no longer supplement them. Successive years diminished her powers of work. Sleeplessness, pain, exhaustion, wore her out; and sometimes for days together she could not bear even an allusion to the Association and its work. Occasional fits of deafness, to which she had always been liable, depressed her more than they had ever previously done. These attacks recurred several times, and lasted for many weeks at a time. It was difficult for her to shake off the gloom that accompanied them, and the sense of isolation and solitude. Her hands and arms were too feeble to allow her to read or work for more than a few moments, so that she was not only cut off from the society of those she loved, but unable to occupy herself in any way. From time to time she regained a little strength, and then it was touching to see how she at once resumed her labours. At the beginning of her illness she took great interest in the inauguration of the Normal College for the Blind. Dr. Campbell had several long conversations with her in 1871, before she left Queen Anne Street, and at his request she had joined the Committee of the College and even attended some of its meetings. She rejoiced in the success that now attended Dr. Campbell's efforts; but she was convinced that a musical career was, in most cases, impossible for the blind. "Many adult persons lose their sight, but the loss does not entail a love of music," she would say. She saw, and had always seen, that handicrafts were the only possible occupation for the majority, especially amongst the poor and uneducated; and one of her chief objects was to increase the number of trades which the blind could follow. She used to say that, with a little ingenuity and contrivance, many additional trades might be thrown open to them. With this end in view she continued to make herself acquainted with the details of different occupations, and wished that experiments "on a very small scale" should be carried out. But there were too many difficulties in the way. Want of health, want of money, want of space for workrooms, met her at every turn. Still, whenever there was a bit of work that she could do, she did it. In November 1874 a special Committee had been appointed by the Charity Organisation Society to consider "what more can be done to promote the welfare of the blind, especially in relation to their industrial training." The Earl of Lichfield presided, and the subjects to be considered were as follows: 1. What is being done industrially for the blind, and in what ways? (_a_) For learners. (_b_) For journeymen. 2. What more can be done through existing agencies? (_a_) By improvements in system of working. (_b_) By co-operation between the agencies. (_c_) By fresh retail shops. 3. May not a large proportion of the able-bodied blind be rendered thoroughly self-supporting? 4. Should the education and training of the blind be to any extent provided for from the rates or other State sources, and, if so, to what extent? The first paper read on the welfare of the blind had been forwarded by Bessie, with an expression of deep regret "That the state of her health prevented her from attending the meeting." She wrote as follows: In endeavours to promote the welfare of the blind, it is essential that some important facts should be borne in mind, viz.-- _1st._ That many blind persons, although instructed in some trade, are either reduced to begging or are driven to the workhouse, not through their own fault, but simply for the want of any regular employment in their trade. _2d._ That children constitute but a small proportion of the blind, as about nine-tenths of the thirty thousand blind in the United Kingdom become so above the age of twenty-one. _3d._ That about half the sightless population live in rural districts. _4th._ That the health of persons without sight is, as a general rule, below that of others. _5th._ That this cause operates, in addition to loss of sight, to bring about the slow rate at which the blind work as compared with the sighted. _6th._ That social ties are even more essential to the blind than to others. OBJECTS TO BE AIMED AT. _1st._ To foster self-reliance, and to enable the blind to help themselves. _2d._ To eradicate the habit of suspicion by promoting friendly intercourse between the blind and the sighted. _3d._ To develop the faculties of the blind in every direction. _4th._ To improve their physical condition. _5th._ In industrial training to endeavour to lessen, as far as possible, the difference in speed in the work between the work of the blind and that of the sighted, while making it the first object to secure good and efficient work. _6th._ To do everything to reduce the dependence of the blind as far as possible, while endeavouring, by Christian instruction, to enable them to accept the unavoidable dependence of their condition in a spirit of humility and thankfulness which will soften and sweeten it to them, and will turn this dependence into one of their greatest blessings, as it will be the means of uniting them more closely to their fellow-creatures. MEANS TOWARDS THESE ENDS. _1st._ Endeavour to enable the blind to earn their own living, and with this view seek out and send children to existing blind schools. _2d._ Promote the establishment of institutions for providing the blind on leaving the schools with regular employment, and for teaching trades to persons ineligible for admission to the schools, which is the case, as a rule, with those above twenty-one years of age. _3d._ When practicable, supply blind persons with regular employment at their own homes, and encourage them to do anything they can on their own account independently of any institution. _4th._ Try to introduce trades hitherto not carried on by the blind, giving the precedence to such as can be practised without sighted aid. _5th._ Cultivate habits of method and precision in the blind, which will all tend to improve the rate at which they work. _6th._ Make the training of efficient blind teachers a special object. _7th._ Encourage residence in the country rather than in towns by giving employment at home, thus cementing family ties and promoting health. _8th._ Form lending libraries of embossed books in all the various systems in use, and establish classes for religious and other instruction. OBSERVATIONS. Many other means besides those here mentioned might be suggested, but the aim of this paper has been to state some of the chief facts bearing on the subject, and to mention some of the most obvious means for improving the condition of the blind. Regular employment at their own homes, when practicable, is of great service to the blind, and especially as by this means numbers in the country can be reached. It might also be possible to some extent to carry out what might be called Rural Home Industrial Teaching, of course regulating the trades taught according to local circumstances. The importance of opening new trades to the blind can hardly be exaggerated, and friends of the blind must welcome every successful effort in this direction. Next to the benefit of real Christian principles must be placed that of enabling the sightless to earn their own living; but where this is impossible pensions should be given. _Lastly._ Let the blind themselves be consulted, and have as much voice as possible in the measures adopted for their welfare; and this is said not only with a view to the educated, but especially to the more intelligent blind in humbler positions, since, as is well known, the mass of those without sight will be found among the poorer classes. The more this is done the more will the blind feel that the sighted desire to carry out such measures as shall act like so many levers with which to raise them from their present depressed condition, and will then heartily second the efforts made, and thankfully grasp the friendly hands held out to them; but which they will only accept reluctantly and coldly, not having their own heart in the work, unless convinced that the main object in view is to enable them, by their own efforts, to stand as far as possible on an equality with their fellow-creatures. The suggestions made in this little paper had all been thought out upon a bed of pain, and with sorrows of her own that might well have engrossed her attention. But Bessie never, to the end of her life, lost an opportunity of working and speaking on behalf of those to whom that life had been devoted. Two events in the history of the Association which deeply interested her were the removal from Oxford Street to more commodious premises in Berners Street, and the Special Bequest of £10,000 by Mr. Gardner. She was gratified to learn that the Special Bequest was no bar to the participation of the Association in the general advantages provided by Mr. Gardner for the blind. CHAPTER XXI LIFE IN THE SICK-ROOM "They also serve who only stand and wait."--MILTON. During the last few years of life Bessie Gilbert never left her invalid couch and bed. In addition to blindness she was liable to distressing attacks of deafness, to sleeplessness, agonising pain, and weary exhaustion. Her throat was often affected, swallowing was difficult. She had lost power in the upper limbs, could only use her hands for a few seconds to read the raised type for the blind, or to do a few stitches of chain work for those she loved; even that became impossible before the end. The record of work for the Institution dwindles down during these years, but she lived for it as completely as she had ever done. She would deny herself the one pleasure that remained--a visit from some one she loved, because it would exhaust her and render her incapable of the little she could now do. For three or four years she received almost daily business letters from Colonel Fyers, and dictated replies to them when her health allowed, but this uncertain interposition was of little value, and by degrees matters of business ceased to be submitted to her. When any question on which she entertained a strong opinion was brought forward, she would occasionally explain her view in a letter to the Committee, but these letters also diminished in number. Her interest in individuals never decreased; the blind workpeople and their affairs occupied her to the very last. In 1878 she heard that one of the workmen was about to marry a workwoman, since dead, who was blind, deformed, and very much out of health. She could not approve of such a marriage, and did her utmost to prevent it. She wrote to express her views, and sent a favourite sick-nurse to the Institution to emphasise them. The result was that she received the following letter, informing her that the engagement was at end: INSTITUTION OF THE ASSOCIATION FOR THE WELFARE OF THE BLIND. 28 BERNERS STREET, LONDON, W., _3d August 1878._ MADAM--I beg to acknowledge the receipt of your very kind letter of the 2d inst., and to express to you how deeply I feel the very great interest you on all occasions have shown towards me, and especially now. I know you must have my welfare at heart, otherwise you would not have favoured me with this communication, for which I sincerely thank you. I, as well as L. W., have, through the means of your kind letter, seen the matter of our proposed marriage from a different point of view, and have therefore decided to act in harmony with your wishes, which no doubt are for our best. I regret very much that any uneasiness should have been caused you by this affair, and trust that in future nothing on my part will occur to cause it again.--I am, madam, your obedient servant, C. C. Miss Elizabeth Gilbert. Bessie warmly approved of marriage for the blind, and was sometimes charged with promoting it injudiciously. In this case she would have been very glad if C. could have found a healthy, capable wife, who would have made him happy. She used to say that blindness was the strongest possible bond of sympathy between husband and wife; and as she did not for herself witness the untidiness and discomfort in the homes where man and wife are both blind, and the almost unavoidable neglect of young children, she could not share the objection of many members of the Committee to marriage between the workpeople. In 1879 her widowed sister, the Hon. Mrs. Elliot, was married to Mr. Childers. Mr. Childers had not previously known Bessie personally, but he saw her several times afterwards, and was greatly impressed by her marvellous patience and resignation. In one of her early interviews with him she had asked for information as to the Blind and Deaf Mute Education Bill, which Mr. Wheelhouse, member for Leeds, Mr. Mellor, and others, had introduced into the House of Commons, but had been unsuccessful in passing. She wished to see any papers Mr. Wheelhouse could send, and was much interested in his efforts and in the correspondence which followed her request. Many letters received at this time have been preserved, and they show the influence which, from her bed of pain, she exercised on all around her. The following is from her old friend, Mr. Coxe, librarian of the Bodleian. It is his last letter to her; he died in the following July: NORTHGATE, OXFORD, _S. Stephen's Day, 1880_. MY VERY DEAR BESSIE--How much I thank you for thinking of me on my sick-bed, and sending me such a welcome Christmas gift to perfume my existence. My wife immediately seized upon one (as owing, or due, to her) and carried off the rest to some secret store-room, unknown to me as yet, in my new house. I have been now nearly three months in my bed and bedroom; how dare I speak of it to you in a spirit other than of deep thankfulness that I have been allowed to brave all weathers, and to work unscathed even to my 70th year. Dear Fan ("old Fan!" it was such a pleasure seeing her!) will have told you what nice quarters we have fallen on wherein to end our days. It was one of the two houses I used in days gone by to covet; the other was old Mr. Parker's, now young Fred Morrell's. Well, dear Bessie, this season has had its message of peace too for you. I am sure that you have received and welcomed it; that simple message in these sad days of rebuke and blasphemy becomes more and more precious. I am not likely to be again a traveller, tho' I should like to see Hilgrove in his new home, only fifteen miles away, so that I am not likely to see you again in this life. May it be granted that we may enjoy a happy reunion in that which shall be. Best love to the "Duchess" and Nora, with much to yourself from yours, dearest Bessie, ever affectionately, H. O. COXE. The year 1881 brought to Bessie a long fit of depression, due mainly to an attack of deafness; but she had also much anxiety with regard to the Association. She heard of custom diminishing, a manager dismissed for dishonesty, heavy losses upon Government contracts undertaken in order to give work to the blind throughout the winter, diminished income and subscriptions, and increased demands for aid. In the old days she would have stirred up her friends, made appeals through the press, organised a public meeting, and surmounted all difficulties. The utmost she could now do was to draw up a short circular, asking all those interested in her work to become Associates, and to subscribe a sum of not less than one shilling a year. Such Associates were to pledge themselves to promote the sale of goods made by the blind. She submitted her scheme and circular to the Committee, and was advised to make the minimum subscription half a crown. In this form it was issued, but, lacking the energy with which she would in former time have launched it, there was no appreciable result. On the 2d of May 1882 a concert in aid of the Association was held, by the kindness of the Duke of Westminster, at Grosvenor House. Bessie did what she could, but by far the greater part of the work connected with it fell upon her sisters. The Duke wrote directly it was over to congratulate her upon a very successful result; and Bessie was greatly cheered to learn that when all incidental expenses were paid, there would remain the sum of £326: 17: 6. The Committee endeavoured as far as possible to save her the distress of knowing the difficulties in which they were involved. Sir E. Sotheby was untiring in his zealous endeavours to promote the interests of the Association, and to shield Bessie from anxiety. Colonel Fyers, though in failing health, never lost sight of the object he had so long worked for. But all efforts were unavailing. Every fact and figure connected with the undertaking had been impressed upon an inexorable memory. Nothing now escaped her. She detected every financial error, and every departure from her original aims and objects. She saw what grave difficulty lay in the fact that since the death of Levy no manager had been appointed who had any special interest in the blind. She feared that the work of her whole life would be ignored; and that there would be no higher aim than to keep open a shop and carry on a trade. Oppressed by this fear, she made one last appeal, one final effort, on behalf of those whom she had loved and served for so long. The address to the Committee, bearing date Whit Monday 1882, may be looked upon as her last will and testament. Internal evidence shows that it was in that light she herself looked upon it, and that she endeavoured to sum up in one short statement, which recapitulates the most important points in the early rules of the Association, the result of a lifetime of work, thought, experience, and devotion. THE ASSOCIATION FOR PROMOTING THE GENERAL WELFARE OF THE BLIND WHITMONDAY, _29th May 1882._ This title should always be borne in mind by those managing the Association, as it clearly indicates the scope of the undertaking. Trade is a most necessary and essential part of the work; and the more sure the foundation upon which the trade is carried on the better will be the security for its prosperity; but trade is by no means the most important part of the undertaking, and indeed it is my earnest desire that the Association should never under any circumstances become a mere trading institution. This would be a great falling off from the original scope and object with which this Association was founded. I wish those who may be at any time entrusted with the management of the Association always to remember that it is open to them to do everything they can, that is likely to promote the welfare of the blind. The particular directions in which this may be done will often be clearly indicated by the circumstances of the Association, and by opportunities which may arise at any given time. Still, certain fixed principles should always be kept in view, as laid down in our rule No. 2, "That the immediate objects of this Association shall be to afford employment to those blind persons who, for want of work, have been compelled to solicit alms, or who may be likely to be tempted to do so. To cause those unacquainted with a trade to be instructed in some industrial art, and to introduce trades hitherto unpractised by the blind. Also, to support a Circulating Library consisting of books in various systems of relief print, to the advantages of which the indigent blind shall be admitted free of charge, and others upon payment of the subscription required by the Committee. To enable blind musicians to show that the loss of sight does not prevent their being efficient organists and scientific musicians. To collect and disseminate information relative to the physical, mental, moral, and religious conditions of the blind; and to promote among individuals and institutions seeking to ameliorate the condition of the blind, a friendly interchange of information calculated to advance the common cause." Rule 16 also provides, "That with a view to increase the funds and extend the utility of the Association, the Committee shall have power to receive into connection with the Association other kindred institutions, and shall seek to form auxiliaries in various parts of the kingdom." The Association will probably never be called upon to undertake anything with regard to music, as the field is now so well and fully occupied by the Royal Normal College; but the rule is quoted exactly as it stands in order to show the breadth of the original design, which design should be kept steadily in view. It is most desirable that among those who may direct the Association there should always be some persons who should make it their special object to study the condition of the blind, and in this study the knowledge of the following facts will be found of service, viz.-- _1st._ That many blind persons after leaving the schools are, although instructed in some trade, reduced to begging or driven to the workhouse, not through their own fault, but simply for the want of any regular employment in their trade. _2d._ That children constitute but a small proportion of the blind; as about nine-tenths of the 30,000 blind in the United Kingdom become so above the age of twenty-one, and are then ineligible for admission to most blind schools. _3d._ That about half the sightless population live in rural districts. The address ends here abruptly. Probably the writer's strength was exhausted with the effort to think and to dictate. During 1882, 1883, 1884 Bessie carried on at long intervals a correspondence with Mr. Wood, Superintendent of the School for the Blind, Sheffield. She learns that his pupils are taught to read embossed type on Braille's system, which her own experience had shown to be unsuited to those who have hard manual labour to perform. In every letter she requests information on this point: "Can the workpeople still read Braille's type?" she asks. The opening up of fresh trades, the establishment of workshops for the benefit of those who leave the school, are questions which she suggests for the serious consideration of the Sheffield Committee, and she asks Mr. Wood for information, at any time he can send it, as to work in any way connected with the blind. About this time Bessie heard that John Bright had spoken at the Normal College, Norwood, and appealed to him on behalf of Berners Street. He replied: 132 PICCADILLY, _26th July 1883._ DEAR MADAM--I thank you for your letter and for the volume you have sent me. My engagements are so many and so constantly pressing that I cannot hope to do much for the cause you have at heart. I hope, however, the cause is making progress, and it is not unlikely that some general inquiry into the condition of the blind will be made before long, and that good may come from it. My presence and speech at Norwood were accidental. I must leave more practical work to others.--I am, very truly yours, JOHN BRIGHT. Miss Gilbert, 5 Stanhope Place, Hyde Park, W. The volume sent was most probably Levy's _Blindness and the Blind_. During 1883 Bessie received frequent letters from the Chairman of her Committee, Sir E. Sotheby, and the Hon. Secretary, Captain Hume Nicholl. They referred to her the different appeals from blind men, women, and boys which reached them; these she carefully investigated and reported upon. During her illness, as throughout her whole life, the utmost help and best advice she could give were always at the disposal of the blind. Farrow, who had worked twenty-eight years at the Institution, loses no opportunity of sending her cheering news. He writes at this time with respect to the brushmakers: During the last six months orders have poured in from all quarters, and I can say that all the years I have been connected with the Institution we have not done so much before in the same time. Brushes manufactured indoors in 1882 amounted to £3200. The present year, from the 1st January to the 1st of June, amounted to £1471: 6: 4 in twenty-two weeks. There was an Industrial Exhibition in the Agricultural Hall, Islington, in 1883, and the blind stall from Berners Street was always crowded. Farrow writes: If the manager of the Agricultural Hall had given us a better position in the body of the hall no doubt we should have done more than we did. The sales amounted to about £110. The donation boxes yielded £15. The cost of the undertaking about £29. The profits of the sale and [contents of] boxes included came to £50, leaving a balance of £21. I superintended the arrangements of the benches as two years ago. The workpeople who represented the different branches are as follows.... I visited the hall several times for the purpose of examining the machinery, to see if there was anything to be learnt for the benefit of the Association.... This year we have the whole of the work of the L. S. W. Railway, and we have also obtained that of St. Mary's Hospital, Paddington. For the future I will not send in any tender unless I see the samples first, as it was often done before without my seeing them. This blind man who "examined the machinery" and must "see the samples" is one after Bessie's own heart, and there was always a merry laugh of approval when she spoke of his letters. A conference was held at York in 1883 on the condition of the blind. It was followed in 1884 by a meeting at Sheffield on the same subject, and presided over by Lord Wharncliffe. Bessie had, at Lord Wharncliffe's request, furnished suggestions and information. He writes as follows: WORTLEY HALL, SHEFFIELD, _12th January 1884_. MADAM--I have taken the liberty of sending to you a copy of the _Sheffield Daily Telegraph_ containing the report of our meeting on Thursday last, and have to express to you my warm thanks for the kindness with which you answered my letter, and for the valuable suggestions contained in your reply. I can only hope that you will be interested with the report of our proceedings, and will approve of what was then said.--I remain, yrs. faithfully, WHARNCLIFFE. Miss Gilbert. The paper of suggestions referred to, travels over much of the ground familiar to Bessie for so many years, and never, as she thought, adequately explored by those who were working for the blind. She writes to Lord Wharncliffe: "It is almost impossible for a blind man, singlehanded, to cope with all the difficulties with which he has to contend, and the result has often been begging or the workhouse. Happily there are many more industrial institutions than there were." One can imagine with what a thrill of satisfaction she would write this, as she remembered the little cellar in Holborn and the humble origin of all her subsequent work. She continues: It would be most desirable that the ordinary schools and such institutions should play into one another's hands, so as to shorten as far as possible the interval between the pupils leaving [school] and their being employed. Sometimes the blind might be taught some special branch of a trade, and might perhaps even be employed by masters among their sighted workpeople. This would answer the double purpose of lightening the work of the Institution, and also of drawing attention to the blind and to what they are able to do, which is a very important point. As industrial institutions must depend to a very great extent upon custom for their support, it is well to bear in mind that some persons without sight can both help themselves and the institution employing them by acting as travellers. People are often very much interested by this means, and look forward to the regular recurring calls of the blind travellers. Besides which it saves people trouble in dealing with an institution if they happen to live at some distance. It is almost needless to say that all the capabilities of the blind should be brought out as much as possible, as the more this is done and the more their highest interests are cared for, the more will their whole condition be elevated and improved. The problem of enabling the blind to earn their own living is by no means an easy one, and is well worthy of the attention of loving hearts and wise intellects for its solution. The whole tone of these wise and thoughtful remarks shows that Bessie had never lost touch with her work. Her interest is as fresh, her expectation as vigorous as ever. She throws out a new suggestion--that of the employment of the blind in special branches of a trade--which may even yet bear fruit. She pleads for "the elevation of the whole condition of the blind," in contradistinction to the administration of charitable doles to degrade them. She had a wide experience of both systems, and could now speak with authority. The letter indeed marks a recrudescence, and has a ring of hope about it. It is not the utterance of one who speaks on the other side of a closed door. You feel that the door is open and she may enter and resume work. There was, in fact, throughout 1884 an indefinable improvement and amelioration in her condition which led her, not perhaps to hope, but to entertain a thought of the possibility of such a measure of recovery as might once more enable her to take an active share in the work of the Institution. It is not likely that this expectation was entertained either by her doctors or nurses; but Bessie had a distinct feeling that a change, an improvement, was before her. "Would it not be wonderful," she said to the present writer in the early summer of 1884, "if I should recover?" And in reply to a question suggested by this remark, she added, "I feel as if there would be a change." CHAPTER XXII TWILIGHT "The noble mansion is most distinguished by the beautiful images it retains of beings passed away; and so is the noble mind." WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR. Fifteen years of suffering had left Bessie Gilbert unchanged as to the aims and work of her life. Long lonely hours of thought had shown her the need that the blind have of help and sympathy, the impossibility of independence and self-supporting work for them unless through the active charity of individuals and the co-operation of the State. And it was the "General Welfare of the Blind" that engrossed her, and not merely their trades. She knew, no one better, how much need they have of resources from within, the pleasures of memory, the courage given by hope and aspiration. Her long years of illness enlarged her ideas of what could be done and ought to be done for them. She contrasted her own condition with that of the poor and untaught, and forgave them all their faults when she remembered their sad state. Bessie had been carefully prepared for the inevitable solitude of her lot. Her mind was richly stored and her memory so carefully trained, that it seemed to allow no escape of anything that interested her. During the long weary days and nights of illness, when deafness isolated her even more than blindness, she would go over the whole story of a book read to her years before. She would recall the symphonies and sonatas she had listened to in early days, and find exceeding great enjoyment in the memory of her music. Indeed, towards the end she had but little pleasure in music heard through the outward ear, for her nerves were not able to endure the shock of a sudden or unexpected outburst of sound. But the music which she could call from out the chambers of memory was soft and tender, and its most impassioned passages gave her no pain. The soul of the music spoke to her soul, and silence brought to her the rapture of spiritual communion. In early youth she had been accustomed, in the daily family prayers, to read in turn her verse of the Lessons and the Psalms. In later years she always read them to herself or had them read aloud to her. During her illness she scarcely ever failed to hear them; and the evening Psalms ended her day. She knew very many of the Psalms by heart, and "specially delighted in the glorious ascriptions of praise and thanksgiving in those for the thirtieth evening of the month." She liked to think that every month and every year at its close was accompanied by praise and thanksgiving. "It pleased and touched her greatly," writes her sister N., "that in the New Lectionary the miracle of restoring sight to the two blind men at Jericho, came as the second lesson for the evening of her birthday, 7th August. "One of her most favourite verses in the Psalms was, 'Thou hast given me the defence of thy salvation. Thy right hand also shall hold me up, and thy loving correction shall make me great.'" Two poems from the _Lyra Germanica_ gave her constant comfort, and were in her heart and on her lips. She found in them the embodiment of her faith, and could use them not only as expressing her own feelings, but as bringing comfort and help, because they were the utterance of the ardent faith and devotion of others. These two hymns really open to us the inner life of Bessie Gilbert. They show from whence she derived the strength and courage that supported her in the efforts and trials of her early life, and they reveal the source of the patient endurance of fifteen years of isolation and suffering. PASSION WEEK.[9] I. IN THE GARDEN. Whene'er again thou sinkest, My heart, beneath thy load, Or from the battle shrinkest, And murmurest at thy God; Then will I lead thee hither, To watch thy Saviour's prayer, And learn from His endurance How thou shouldst also bear. Oh come, wouldst thou be like Him, Thy Lord Divine, and mark What sharpest sorrows strike Him, What anguish deep and dark,-- That earnest cry to spare Him, The trial scarce begun? Yet still He saith: "My Father, Thy will, not mine, be done!" Oh wherefore doth His spirit Such bitter conflict know? What sins, what crimes could merit Such deep and awful woe? So pure are not the heavens, So clear the noonday sun, And yet He saith: "My Father, Thy will, not mine, be done!" Oh mark that night of sorrow, That agony of prayer; No friend can watch till morrow His grief to soothe and share; Oh where shall He find comfort? With God, with God alone, And still He saith: "My Father, Thy will, not mine, be done!" Hath life for Him no gladness, No joy the light of day? Can He then feel no sadness, When heart and hope give way? That cup of mortal anguish One bitter cry hath won, That it might pass: "Yet, Father, Thy will, not mine, be done!" And who the cup prepared Him, And who the poison gave? 'Twas one He loved ensnared Him, 'Twas those He came to save. Oh sharpest pain, to suffer Betray'd and mock'd--alone; Yet still He saith: "My Father, Thy will, not mine, be done!" But what is joy or living, What treachery or death, When all His work, His striving, Seems hanging on His breath? Oh can it stand without Him, That work but just begun? Yet still He saith: "My Father, Thy will, not mine, be done!" He speaks; no more He shrinketh, Himself He offers up; He sees it all, yet drinketh For us that bitter cup, He goes to meet the traitor, The cross He will not shun,-- He saith: "I come, My Father, Thy will, not mine, be done!" My Saviour, I will never Forget Thy word of grace, But still repeat it ever, Through good and evil days; And looking up to heaven, Till all my race is run, I'll humbly say: "My Father, Thy will, not mine, be done!" W. HEY, 1828. FIFTEENTH SUNDAY AFTER TRINITY. Be thou content; be still before His face, at whose right hand doth reign Fulness of joy for evermore, Without whom all thy toil is vain. He is thy living spring, thy sun, whose rays Make glad with life and light thy weary days. Be thou content. In Him is comfort, light, and grace, And changeless love beyond our thought; The sorest pang, the worst disgrace, If He is there, shall harm thee not. He can lift off thy cross, and loose thy bands, And calm thy fears, nay, death is in His hands. Be thou content. Or art thou friendless and alone, Hast none in whom thou canst confide? God careth for thee, lonely one, Comfort and help will He provide. He sees thy sorrows and thy hidden grief, He knoweth when to send thee quick relief. Be thou content. Thy heart's unspoken pain He knows, Thy secret sighs He hears full well, What to none else thou dar'st disclose, To Him thou mayst with boldness tell; He is not far away, but ever nigh, And answereth willingly the poor man's cry. Be thou content. Be not o'er-mastered by thy pain, But cling to God, thou shalt not fall; The floods sweep over thee in vain, Thou yet shalt rise above them all; For when thy trial seems too hard to bear Lo! God, thy King, hath granted all thy prayer. Be thou content. Why art thou full of anxious fear How thou shalt be sustain'd and fed? He who hath made and placed thee here Will give thee needful daily bread; Canst thou not trust His rich and bounteous hand, Who feeds all living things on sea and land? Be thou content. He who doth teach the little birds To find their meat in field and wood, Who gives the countless flocks and herds Each day their needful drink and food, Thy hunger too will surely satisfy, And all thy wants in His good time supply. Be thou content. Sayest thou, I know not how or where, No hope I see where'er I turn; When of all else we most despair, The riches of God's love we learn; When thou and I His hand no longer trace, He leads us forth into a pleasant place. Be thou content. Though long His promised aid delay, At last it will be surely sent: Though thy heart sink in sore dismay, The trial for thy good is meant. What we have won with pains we hold more fast, What tarrieth long is sweeter at the last. Be thou content. Lay not to heart whate'er of ill Thy foes may falsely speak of thee, Let man defame thee as he will, God hears and judges righteously. Why shouldst thou fear, if God be on thy side, Man's cruel anger, or malicious pride? Be thou content. We know for us a rest remains, When God will give us sweet release From earth and all our mortal chains And turn our sufferings into peace. Sooner or later death will surely come To end our sorrows and to take us home. Be thou content. Home to the chosen ones, who here Served their Lord faithfully and well, Who died in peace without a fear, And there in peace for ever dwell; The Everlasting is their joy and stay, The Eternal Word Himself to them doth say Be thou content! PAUL GERHARDT, 1670. For weeks together during her illness Bessie was at times unable to sleep during the night. She was too considerate to her nurses to disturb them for mere sleeplessness. She would then, as we have said, recall to memory music and books which she had heard, and at these times Shakespeare and Sir Walter Scott were a great resource to her. The characters she admired lived for her, and she would try to picture to herself how they would act in circumstances which she invented for them. Her knowledge of English history was also a source of interest, and often astonished those around her. One evening in 1884 a young niece preparing for an examination asked in vain for information as to the "Salisbury Assize" until the question was put to "Aunt Bessie," who at once explained it. There were long lapses, as it were, in her life. After the sleepless nights she had to sleep when she could, and her room in the daytime was hushed and silent, all external life and interest excluded. At night she was again fully awake, but it was to find herself alone in the "chambers of her imagery." One of the two sisters who were her constant companions, and nursed her with unfailing devotion for fifteen years, writes as follows: All through her illness, with the occasional exceptions when she suffered from deafness, her cheerfulness was marvellous, her patience never-failing, and her consideration and thoughtfulness for those around her very wonderful and touching. She had a special name of her own for each of her nurses, all of them loved her, and upon several of them the influence of her patience and goodness was strongly marked, and will be of lifelong endurance. Her first sick-nurse came in 1872 and stayed two years. She often afterwards visited her. She came to see us after Bessie's death, and said with tears, "Oh, I did not do enough for her. I wish I had done more." Bessie would often arrange little surprises and pleasures for us and give us flowers. She was anxious we should have all the variety we could, and took the greatest pleasure in hearing an account of what we had seen and done whilst away from her. She liked to see visitors when she was well enough, but was often nervous about it, fearing lest the excitement should do her harm, and interfere in any way with what little she could do for the Institution. Perhaps few realised how much she suffered; she was so patient, so bright, so sympathetic that it was difficult to do so. The last few months of her life were full of pain. No record of Bessie's illness would be adequate which did not speak of the love that lightened every burden laid upon her. Sisters and brothers bound by so strong a bond of family love as the Gilberts are even more closely united by affliction. No day passed without its tribute of affectionate remembrance from absent members of the family. Her eldest brother, Mr. Wintle, always spent the afternoon of Sunday with her, when she was able to receive him. The Vicar of Heversham, the beloved "Tom" of her youth, saw her in London whenever it was possible. Married sisters visited and wrote to her, and a whole cloud of nephews and nieces hovered around her. She valued highly the friendship as well as the skill of Mr. Sibley, the surgeon who for many years attended her. She depended upon him for almost daily visits. Very little could be done to arrest the progress of her malady; nothing to save her from much inevitable suffering. Alleviation, not cure, was all that could be looked for, and he was always ready to attempt, and often able to effect, some mitigation of the ills she had to endure. Among many others who were kind and helpful, ready to aid her work and so to give her almost the only pleasure she could receive, were the Duke of Westminster, Lord and Lady Selborne, Madame Antoinette Sterling, who would sometimes sing to her, and the old and dear friends of the family, Dean and Mrs. Hook. No word can here be said of the two sisters, whose whole life was given up to her; none would be adequate. They knew, and they were known. That is enough. We may not lift the veil under which they passed so many years with Bessie in her long agony. FOOTNOTE: [9] From _Lyra Germanica_, second series. CHAPTER XXIII THE END "In Thy light we shall see light." The summer of 1884 in London was hot and exhausting. In Bessie's helpless condition excessive heat caused her real suffering; for she was fixed immovable upon her couch. But if she longed for cool breezes, the scent of flowers and song of birds, she uttered no murmur in their absence. The slight improvement recognised with so much gratitude in the spring was not permanent, but the "change" she anticipated was at hand. "I feel as if there would be a change," she had said. The autumn showed that she had seriously lost ground. "Her throat," continues her sister N., "always painful and irritable, had now become a source of great suffering. There was constant pain, greatly increased every time she swallowed; whilst her weakness made it important that she should take plenty of nourishment. A troublesome cough came on; fits of coughing that lasted for hours and exhausted her terribly. At the same time neuralgia and rheumatism attacked the left leg and thigh, and violent pain caused her, with all her courage and patience, to scream in the most heartrending manner. Her whole body became most sensitive to touch, and yet she was obliged to be moved on account of the cough. Her limbs seemed to stiffen, and the body was like a leaden weight pressing on the bed. To change her position, even to touch her hair, caused her great pain; and it required four or even five persons to move her with the minimum of pain." This sad condition lasted through the autumn of 1884, but she improved wonderfully about Christmas time, and there was alleviation and relief for herself and all around her. On Christmas day, however, a fresh sorrow befel her. Her brother-in-law, Mr. Bowles, died suddenly, and all her old grief at the loss of her sister Mary, of her father, and of dear friends, was reopened. She had a serious relapse, and before long the condition of her throat made it desirable to seek further advice. Dr. Semon was consulted, and he examined her throat by the help of the electric light. She was greatly interested in this examination, in the explanation of the apparatus used, and in the fact that hers was the first throat so examined since Dr. Semon's apparatus had been perfected. Shortly afterwards her condition was aggravated by slight bronchitis, and for four days and nights she had no sleep. On the 7th of February 1885 Dr. Sibley saw her between 12 and 12.30, and anticipated no immediate danger. But he was again hastily summoned, and at 1.15 she died; conscious to the last moment. "She had been so tired the night before," writes her sister. "About midnight she said: 'Art thou weary, art thou weary?' and we repeated the beautiful hymn, which seemed to soothe her. Even that last night she was full of thought for others. 'Mind you have some tea; do make yourselves some tea,' she said. She evidently followed the prayers that we said, and indeed her death was a falling asleep, so peaceful, with no pain or struggle whatever." The farewell of two old friends was by her bedside at Ascension Tide, May 1884, when Bessie received the Holy Communion. Such a radiant light, such ineffable peace rested on her face when she lay back in silence on her pillow, that the writer thought "so will she look when at last her eyes are open to the eternal day." A kiss, a pressure of the hand, a word of farewell, and there was no other place of meeting in this life. Undaunted by suffering and privation, patient, heroic, she lived and died. No murmur escaped her lips from early youth to age. She stood trembling with awestruck face when, after she had said, "Oh how I should like to see the sun!" her companion solemnly assured her, "And you shall see," and turned the sightless face towards the glowing sky. All was dark, the young girl could only answer, "I see nothing," as she turned and went slowly homewards. She accepted her blindness. It was the will of God. No word of lamentation escaped her throughout her life. Again there came a time when a great cause had been entrusted to her, when she felt that it was prospering in her hands, when she hoped to raise the whole condition of the blind, to lift them up out of poverty and dependence, and place them on a level with all industrious and intelligent citizens. But a hand was laid upon her in the darkness. "I can do nothing," she said; and once again she turned and went slowly without a murmur, without repining, down the dark pathway to the grave and gate of death. But the work for which she gave her life has not died, and cannot die. Every good seed, sown upon good ground, must spring up and bear fruit. Her patient efforts, her success in "removing obstacles from before the feet of the blind," will help and encourage other workers. Blind children in our schools, blind workmen and workwomen in our shops and factories, will reap the harvest for which Bessie Gilbert laboured, and may join in the acknowledgment of dependence upon the Great Father which she so loved to utter: "All thy works praise thee, O Lord." THE END _Printed by_ R. & R. CLARK, _Edinburgh_